The King & I
by Terminally Introverted
Summary: Matthew is a psychiatrist in a hospital psych ward. All day he deals with the insane, and he believes he's seen everything. When Gilbert- a man with an alternate personality who believes he's the king of the long-abolished Prussia- is forcibly admitted, he's proven wrong.
1. Chapter 1

**This is the third installment of my ongoing hospiverse series. While reading the others may add to the experience, it is not necessary to read them to understand this. **

* * *

After spending several years of his life as a therapist in an impatient psychiatric ward, Matthew was almost completely certain he had seen it all. He had dealt with violence, verbal assaults, psychosis, compulsions, and at least three individuals who claimed to be Jesus- two of which stayed at the hospital simultaneously. He had things thrown at him, he was yelled at on a fairly normal basis, and he had learned how to talk patients down from various states of hysteria. In this line of work, nothing was too unusual. Whatever came through those doors, Matthew was well equip the handle it.

That was what he thought, at least.

He was drawn from his office by the screaming. He was no stranger to dramatic entrances, but something about this was different. For once thing, the words were not in English. If he was hearing correctly, they were in German. That should not have been a surprise in itself, since this hospital prided itself on being multicultural. What surprised him was the intensity. The words warped together into a jumble of repetitive, shrill shrieking powerful enough to penetrate the office walls. It was not hard to tell there was chaos happening outside. Matthew stood from his desk and walked into the hallway. He supposed he had his work cut out for him today.

The second surprise was the size of crowd. It looked as though the entire population of the hospital had emptied out and gathered in the psychiatric ward's lobby, no matter if they were patients, doctors, nurses or even janitors. For a moment, Matthew wondered what on earth could be so interesting. As soon as he laid eyes on _him, _however, any trace of confusion was erased.

What caught his attention were the man's eyes. They were fixed wide open, bloodshot and ferocious, almost red in the harsh florescent lighting. His movements were jerking and violent, and the four men holding him down seemed to struggle just to keep him from bolting. The only thing to escape his gritted teeth were the very same screams Matthew had heard in the first place. It took a long while for Matthew to advert his gaze, and when he did, his eyes flew to one of the house supervisors. It was time to start doing his job.

"Mr. Edelstein!" shouted Matthew over the mutiny. Roderich was of Austrian descent, so if there was anyone that could make sense of this, it was him. Matthew shoved his way through the dense crowd until he got to him. "Roderich, you speak German, right? Do you have any idea what he's saying?"

Roderich was, as always, keeping perfect composure through all of this. He nodded and pushed up his thin wire glasses, looking away from the scene in front of him without hesitation. "Nothing much of substance, I'm afraid. It sounds like a nonsensical stream of curse words." He wrinkled his nose in disgust and shook his head. "That, and I believe he's demanding to be let go."

Well, that didn't help much of anything. Before Matthew even realized he had turned his head, his eyes were locked on the German again. Sweat-matted tufts of white hair were now obstructing his eyes, and neither his words nor his attempts to free himself from the hold of the orderlies had decreased in intensity. "How long has this been going on?"

"His friends brought him in about five minutes ago. How long he's actually been like this, I haven't the slightest idea." Roderich's eyes flickered back to the center and he held up a hand. "Hold on. He keeps repeating one word. Why he would be, I have no clue…"

Matthew was unable to tear his eyes away. The man's striking appearance paired with the strange twisting of his movements made it impossible. He spoke without looking at Roderich. "What is he saying?"

"He keeps saying…_Preußen. _Prussia." Roderich stared for a moment longer, then without warning broke out in a short burst of laughter. "Oh, dear. This one says he's royalty."

It would not be the first time. Matthew was hardly surprised. "You're telling me he thinks he's the King of Prussia." It was not even a question. "Did Prussia even have a king?"

Roderich shrugged. "Does it even make a difference? Remember where you are, Dr. Williams."

Matthew nodded. If he had learned anything since taking this job, it was to expect the unexpected. This rang true again when he looked behind him only to be met by the unblinking, even gaze of another one of his patients. He made a flippant motion with his hand in a sad attempt to get him back to his room. "Ivan, everything is fine. Go back."

"This does not seem fine," said Ivan. Unlike the others, he did not look the least bit dazed by the spectacle in front of him. He was smiling, so if anything, he was amused. Again, Matthew was hardly surprised.

There was no time to deal with this right now. Without giving himself long enough to talk himself out of it, Matthew threw himself directly into the eye of the storm. His pulse sped up as he moved past the first row of people and stood directly in front of this self-proclaimed Prussian King. "Sir," he said. The orderlies attempting to restrain the man looked at Matthew like he was insane, but he ignored them. "Sir, everything is alright. You're safe. We're going to need you to calm down."

"Dr. Williams, that's not going to work. We're going to need to sedate him," said one of the orderlies. He tightened his grip when the Albino flailed again, this time in what looked to be an attempt to strike Matthew. "I'm going to need a sedative over here!" he called to a nearby nurse.

"If you would just let me-"

But like always, his words were too quiet and too weak. They did not demand authority. Before Matthew could even attempt to calm him down himself, a nurse rushed over with a needle and plunged it into the man's pale arm. Matthew quickly looked away. He always hated when the sedative was brought out. To Matthew, giving a patient drugs instead of calming them down naturally felt like giving up.

Within seconds, the pandemonium ended. The German's angry words stopped, his body went limp, and his once wild eyes fluttered shut. Before Matthew could do or say anything, this new patient was whisked away. Since the show was over, the crowd dispersed moments after. The exception was Ivan. "Who is he?" His voice was too innocent.

Matthew did not have the time or energy to handle Ivan right then. With feelings of shame and confusion coursing through him, he shot the Russian patient a glare he did not even know he was capable of and said, "Your new roommate, probably." After all, the room Ivan shared with Arthur was one of the only ones with an empty bed.

With Ivan now rendered silent, Matthew let his gaze travel to the front of the room. There, he saw something else that could possibly be of help to him- two worse for wear, absolutely terrified looking young men. These must have been the friends Roderich had mentioned. He stole one last glance at the now comatose German before he was pulled into another room, then made his way to the men and held out his hand. "Hello, my name is Dr. Matthew Williams. I understand you brought that man in?"

The first to shake his hand was the jumpier of the two, his skin tan though his face was stark white, his curled hair a mess and his green eyes bleary. "Hello, sir. My name is Antonio, and this is Francis." He nodded towards the blond next to him, and then sighed shakily. "We didn't know what else to do. We can usually calm him down, but this time…" Antonio just shook his head. Francis looked at his shoes.

Matthew felt a pang of sympathy. It always pained him to see the distressed faces of the people his patients came in with. They never looked as though they could decide whether to be angry, frightened, or just plain confused. "Well, you did the right thing. I can promise that your friend is getting the best treatment available." He spoke as calmly as he could, an attempt to counteract the madness they had all just witnessed. "Do you know what brought this on?"

Antonio ran a trembling hand through his hair. "Gilbert is not usually like this, and I mean that quite literally."

Francis nodded. "He has…oh, Antonio, what was it? It's the one with all the dreadful personalities."

"Dissociative Identity Disorder." Antonio rattled off the phrase as if he had said it a hundred times before. "That… wasn't Gilbert at all, actually. It was The King."

Matthew was torn between being pleasantly surprised to already have a diagnosis and feeling distraught by the severity. "I see. When was he diagnosed? Is he on any kind of medication?"

"He was diagnosed years ago, but he was never good about taking his medication. He said he couldn't function while he was on it." Antonio paused and took a shuddering breath. "Although, it seems as though he can't function well without it, either."

Patients refusing medication wasn't all that uncommon. Matthew made a list in his mind with all the information he was being given, since he was sure he would need it very soon. "Can you tell me a bit about this alter, please?"

Francis continued to stay dead silent while Antonio continued to explain as if he had rehearsed it. "He goes by a few different names. You can address him as a king, and sometimes he likes to be called Fritz. Like Fredrick the Great," he said. Matthew nodded along. "He's…not very nice. He likes to pick fights and get a rise out of people. I believe it might actually entertain him."

Antonio glanced down at his arms, and Matthew noticed they were adorned with angry red scratches. "Did he do that to your arms?"

"Yes. It was quite a struggle to get him here." Antonio ran his fingers down his arm and winced.

Matthew decided it would be best not to ask exactly what happened. He would figure that out later. He let his eyes wander to Francis, and he immediately saw what looked to be a bite mark poking out from beneath his askew collar. "Francis, did he… bite you?"

Francis glanced down at himself and quickly adjusted his shirt. "Oh!" He let out a sound that was almost a laugh. "That was not Gilbert." He smirked, and Antonio shot him a look before rolling his eyes.

"Anyway," said Antonio, "we did not know what else to do, so we brought him here. Please take care of our _amigo, _and please do not judge him based on what just happened. Gilbert is a fantastic man. You just have to worry about The King."

Matthew smiled and nodded. He never passed judgment on his patients, especially when they were in extreme distress. It simply would not be fair. "I've dealt with DID patients before. This isn't anything new." He made sure to keep his voice even and quiet, but it ended up doing nothing to reduce the look of pure terror Antonio and Francis both carried. Matthew did not allow himself to become discouraged. Instead, he tried again. "Gilbert is really lucky to have friends like you. Visiting starts at four everyday, so you can visit soon, okay? He will be fine. Maybe you two should go home and rest."

Francis closed his eyes and nodded, letting out a long breath. "Yes, I believe that is a good idea. Thank you. Come on, Antonio."

Antonio almost turned to leave, but his eyes widened and he whipped back around. "Hold on. One more thing." He clapped a hand on Matthew's shoulder and met his gaze with wide, firm eyes. "No matter what state Gilbert is in, do not call him German. If anyone asks, he is _Prussian. _Don't ask why. Because if there is one way to get him acting like _that," _Antonio flicked his head towards the spot Gilbert was just in, "calling him German is how you do it."

Though it seemed strangely petty, Matthew nodded and made a mental note of what Antonio had said. He was used to patients having odd triggers, and it was important to remember each and every one. "Prussian. Got it."

"Thank you. Thank you so much," said Antonio, his voice slightly strained and wavering with unshed tears. He stayed frozen until Francis tugged on his arm and said something under his breath. Then, after one last lilting moment of eye contact, they were out the door.

Matthew took a moment to collect himself before returning to his office. Maybe he would call it an early day. After all, he would need his energy tomorrow. Gilbert would be up by then.

.

Gilbert was used to waking up in strange places. He could not count the number of times he had opened his eyes to find himself face down in an alleyway, handcuffed to a chair in a police station, or on a couple occasions, in bed next to someone he had no recollection of meeting. His memory was full of blank spaces and holes, yet each and every time 'The King' came out, Gilbert was left to figure out what he had done and somehow deal with the aftermath.

When he opened his eyes and came to the realization he was in a hospital, he knew it was one of those times.

Once the restraints were taken off, Gilbert was able to survey the damage done to his body. It the first of many puzzles pieces he would have to put together to solve this mystery. He could not blame The King for the angry scratch marks running down his forearms- that was all Gilbert's doing, and it was nothing new. When he glanced down at his wrists and knuckles, he was not surprised they were splattered in bruises. He supposed he must have been in some kind of fight. Other than that, he had nothing. The last thing he remembered was sitting at a bar, laughing at some stupid joke either Antonio or Francis had made.

Gilbert froze at the thought of his friends. God, what had he done to them this time? How much had they seen? He could only pray they were all right, and with any luck, they would forgive him. Hoping was all he could do. Since he had ended up here, he could only imagine how bad last night's episode had been, not to mention what was to come. He was not sure if he even wanted to know. Sickened by the physical evidence, Gilbert rolled down the sleeves of his sweater, shut his eyes and tried to forget.

"Feeling any better?"

Gilbert opened his eyes when he heard the voice. Contrary to what he had expected, it did not sound accusatory or even irritated. If anything, it sounded calm- maybe even concerned. When he looked up, he quickly realized the voice was befitting of the person it came from. The man standing in front of him was clutching the cuff of his sleeve, his arms close to his body. The blonde wisps of hair falling into his eyes almost made him look too young to be a doctor, but the faint look of concern he harbored made it obvious that he was one.

"Uh…" With the gentle gaze of the man boring into his mind, Gilbert found himself unable to formulate a response. He forced himself to look away. "I've been better."

"I expected that." He took a step forward and held out his hand. "I'm Dr. Matthew Williams. You can call me Matthew, if you would like."

Gilbert shook his hand but did not meet his eyes. He was too bust focusing on his sleeve and hoping it would not ride up. "Matthew," he repeated. He wasn't sure if he ever had a therapist that was okay with being called by their first name. He wasn't even sure if that made him more or less comfortable. He did not want to ask the question rattling around in his mind, but he knew he had to. "Do you think you could tell me… what happened, exactly? I don't remember a damn thing."

"Of course. I don't expect you to remember." Matthew adjusted his glasses and, surprisingly enough, simply sat down next to Gilbert on the bed. "Your friends brought you in last night."

This could not be good. Usually, Antonio and Francis could handle The King. If they couldn't this time, Gilbert could only imagine what a disaster it had been. "God, are Francis and Antonio okay?"

"They're fine, just worried. You were extremely distressed, after all."

Oh, no. Gilbert could already tell where this was heading. "And by distressed you mean screaming and hitting people and shit, right?"

Matthew looked into his lap and wrung his hands together. "Well, I'm afraid so, yes."

Well, at least that explained the restraints. Gilbert was able to infer that they had knocked him out. Now, it was time for his least favorite part: the explanation. Where the hell could he even begin? He could not even be sure if this man would believe him. He cupped his neck in his hand, the room around him already starting to feel uncomfortably warm. "Look, this might sound weird, but that wasn't exactly me. I have this thing called-"

Matthew held out his hand, stopping him. "Dissociative identity, right? Antonio told me." He smiled, looking nothing but understanding. Gilbert felt a rush of relief so powerful it was almost dizzying. "I've had other patients with the same condition. I understand. There's no need to explain yourself right now."

Gilbert felt the tension in his muscles release. Good. He really did not have the energy to do any kind of explaining right then. "Awesome," he said. "Sorry about all that, by the way."

"No need to apologize. You're here to get better, right?"

When Matthew tilted his head and smiled again, Gilbert could have said he was already starting to feel a bit better. But he knew that would hardly be true, so he sat silent and listened as Matthew went over a few basic rules and told him his assigned room. Gilbert could not remember the last time he was spoken to this kindly, especially in the aftermath of a transition. If Matthew were to continue speaking for hours, Gilbert would not complain. It distracted him from the shame, and he was able to ignore the burning underneath the skin of his arms that begged him to tear into them.

But Matthew stopped speaking not long after he began, and he dismissed Gilbert moments after. As he was walking to his room, he reached two realizations rather quickly. The first was that he liked Matthew. He liked him a lot. But he had no time to revel in that solitary spark of joy, because he had the second realization to worry about.

If Gilbert liked Matthew, The King would _hate _him.

.

While The King got to have all the fun, Gilbert got the stigma.

The white walls lining the hallway seemed endless, mocking. The patients Gilbert passed seemed to either stare right through him or look away the moment they laid eyes on him. It was not hard to figure out why. Everyone in this place _knew. _They had already decided what they thought about Gilbert, already concluded it was best to avoid him. After the entrance he made last night; that was all anyone saw when they looked at him- the crazy, violent, unstable _German. _Gilbert himself had not even gotten to make a first impression. Just like so many other things, he was used to it.

It was the same thing every time. After a transition, just getting through the rest of the day felt like walking around with boulders tied to both his ankles. Now that he had somehow ended up in a psychiatric ward where he was already hated, it was about a thousand times worse. Since there was nothing else he could do, Gilbert just stared at the wall next to his bed as if it would hold the answers to any of this. He was too exhausted to move, to feel, to think.

"Excuse me, but what are you doing here?"

The sudden words, spoken in a thick Russian accent, hit like a splash of ice water. Gilbert had no idea someone had even entered the room. He ignored the strange chill that shot into him. At least someone was talking to him. "Oh." He forced his body to respond, forced himself to turn around. "Hey. My name is Gilbert." While he hoped he sounded nonchalant, he fought to sound normal. He looked up to see a man looming over the bed, smiling gently and staring directly at him. Despite it being June, he was wearing a thick, pale scarf. The strange chill Gilbert felt only intensified.

"Gilbert," said the Russian. A flash of what almost looked like disgust passed over his face for the briefest moment before his lips snapped into a smile again. Gilbert told himself he had imagined it. "You are the crazy one, _da?_ The one who caused such a disturbance?"

Maybe Gilbert had not imagined the disgust after all. He felt the small spark of hope die like a firework dissolving in the sky. Of course his roommate thought he was crazy. Everyone else did. He looked away when he felt tears prick at his eyes. "Look, I don't even know how I got here, alright? That was all him. Not me. I can't control the shit he does." He spoke on autopilot, without even a trace of hope that this man would understand.

And of course, he didn't. "I do not understand," said the Russian. "You are the same German who-"

No. Not that word. "Prussian," said Gilbert immediately, a flash of panic creeping up his throat. He did not realize his hand had moved to his arm until he felt his nails cutting against his skin. Even when he did notice, he didn't try to stop himself. "I'm not German." Because he was not German, not like his family, not like his _brother…_

The Russian tilted his head. "Prussia has not existed for a very long time."

Gilbert felt his breath hitch. No. Not again. He could fight this. He had to. In an attempt to ward off the inevitable, he lifted his hand from his arm, yanked it through his hair and focused on the pain. "Anyway," he said, pretending he did not notice the strain in his own voice, "that wasn't me. I'm…dissociative." No matter how many times he tried to explain this to people, it never got any easier. For a second, the shame almost overrode the panic. "Look, I just met you, I don't want to get into this."

He was speaking again. Why was he still speaking, God, stop… "But you are the same German who-"

Gilbert lost the fight. Once he felt the click, he knew it was over. A wave of vertigo flowed through his mind, knocked the air from his lungs and erased the room around him. His eyes shut, and when they opened, Gilbert was gone.

"I'm _Prussian, _you useless communist!" The King looked the Russian in the eyes, remembered his words and shot to his feet. Maybe Gilbert would stand for this, but he was not about to. First he had to deal with his pathetic excuse for a host, and now he had to deal with the commies. "I'm the goddamn King!"

"The King?"

What an idiot. The King laughed, maybe at the Russian, maybe just at the situation he managed to get Gilbert in. "I'm the King of Prussia. I'm awesome, and you're just a _Russian. _You're nothing compared to me." His temporary mania died once the words passed his lips. Maybe Gilbert would have to deal with the majority of this, but when he was here, he was going to get the respect he deserved. The Russian looked much too calm. The King wanted _fear. _In an attempt to get just that, he grabbed hold of that ridiculous scarf.

"Stop." The Russian's voice cracked on the word. Perfect. He tried to move, so The King simply strengthened his hold. He was overcome with powerful, consuming joy when he realized found a weakness. He refused to show that emotion on his face, however. "Gilbert-"

"I'm not Gilbert!" The joy was instantly gone upon being mistaken for that coward. The King pulled the scarf as hard as he could, hoping it would come off completely. Infuriatingly, the Russian somehow held it to his neck. "I'm the King, communist! Address me as such!"

It was easy to see the Russian's breathing speed up, his face go pale and his hands start to tremble. The King would have reveled in the satisfaction if he were not too enraged to care. "Yes," he nearly whispered. "You are The King."

He supposed that was enough. He had won. "Good." He tossed the scarf from his hand; shot the Russian a warning glance, and got back into bed.

Good luck dealing with that one, Gilbert.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

For the first few days, Gilbert had no idea why his roommate kept glaring at him. He had barely even met him. In fact, he did not even learn that his name was Ivan until his other roommate, Arthur, let him know. All he remembered was waking up at the hospital, talking to Matthew, and later falling asleep again. At least, that was all he wanted to remember. But as the days passed, Gilbert remembered more and more. He remembered Ivan talking down to him, remembered being called German, remembered transitioning. The King must have pissed this guy off before Gilbert even had a chance to learn his name. But that was okay, because after remembering what he'd said, Gilbert didn't like Ivan either.

No matter how unpleasant he was, Ivan was only the first thing Gilbert had to deal with in this place. If there was one thing that drove him crazy, it was the structure. Before he checked in- or, rather, was dragged in- he was free to do as he pleased no matter what the consequences ended up being. Now, Gilbert had someone telling him when to get up, when to eat, when to shower, what to think and how to feel. It wasn't even unnerving as much as it was _boring. _The day after his arrival passed in excruciating monotony, only broken up by the occasional haughty glance or backhanded comment Ivan threw at him.

One thing, however, kept him from losing it completely.

Gilbert had dealt with an army of therapists. Some were mildly helpful, some were patronizing, some didn't seem to believe there was anything wrong with him at all, and he resented each and every one of them. Every session was the same. They would usually open with a question, one that felt too vague and too disposable. Then Gilbert would answer, his response equally as vague and disposable. They would go on like that, sometimes talking about The King- provided that particular therapist bought into his existence- other times talking about petty feelings and insignificant moments in his childhood. Then they would ask about Ludwig. That was when Gilbert shut down.

Then there was Matthew.

"How are you feeling, Gilbert? Are you adjusting well?"

Gilbert blinked back into attention. This must have been the third time in the past five minutes he had lost himself in his own thoughts. He was just so tired. Matthew's soft voice was not exactly helping, either. That wasn't to say he was upset about it. "Oh," he said finally. "I'm alright, I guess. It'll take some getting used to."

"That's perfectly understandable." Matthew smiled then. Unlike the others, though, it seemed genuine. "I have to ask you something, though. It's kind of the standard."

Gilbert shrugged. "Shoot."

"Do you understand why you're here?"

Slowly, Gilbert lifted his eyes to meet Matthew's sympathetic gaze. The question was so ridiculous he probably could have laughed if didn't feel so unbearably ashamed. "I mean, I think last night made that pretty clear." He tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a sigh. The memory hit like a punch, and Gilbert quickly looked away. "So, yeah, I understand."

"Thought so. It's just something I ask everyone." Matthew sounded almost apologetic. "Your official diagnosis is DID, correct? How long ago were you diagnosed?"

"Oh. Uh…" Gilbert felt the surface of his arm begin to burn, and he quickly covered it with his hand. No, not here, not this early into it… "Five years ago, maybe. I'm not exactly sure." His face went warmer.

"Alright. We can always check your records." As Matthew spoke, Gilbert kept his eyes locked on the arm of his chair. He noticed Matthew had a habit of drumming his fingers and he was nearly mesmerized by it, only broken from his partial trance when he kept speaking. "Your friend said you took medication, but stopped. Why is that?"

He sounded far from accusatory, but Gilbert's embarrassment intensified anyway. "It made me…tired." He cringed internally at how bad of an excuse it was. Tired? Really? The fire under his skin burned, hot and desperate, but Gilbert refused to give in. That damn medication made him feel like a robot, numb and dead to everything in the world. Maybe he had to live with The King when he was off of it, but at least he felt alive- even if he honestly didn't want to sometimes. But he could not put any of that into words. "Really tired," he mumbled.

"So it wasn't for you. Alright."

Finally, Gilbert looked up. He was used to being yelled at when he admitted he was off his medication- by therapists, doctors, Francis, Antonio, _Ludwig…_ especially Ludwig. He yelled at him a lot about this, actually. Gilbert could not even count the times his brother had gotten into a physical fight with The King and later yelled at Gilbert for being 'antagonistic.' Gilbert jerked back to attention when he felt his nails trace his skin and forced his hand away. "I guess it wasn't."

"It happens. We can certainly work on finding something better." If anything, this felt like a casual conversation. Gilbert could not believe how easy it was to breathe. That changed when Matthew asked his next question. "Now, do you remember when this alter first appeared?"

Yes, Gilbert remembered. What was even worse was it was over the stupidest thing. He would have loved to say The King first came out because Ludwig was in danger, or because his friends got themselves into a fight they simply could not win, or hell, even that he was the result of some catastrophic, world-ending trauma. But none of that was the truth. Gilbert had been in high school when some punk kid had made fun of his albinism one time too many. One moment he was sitting, trying desperately to control his rage, and the next, his hands were bruised and there was a crowd gathered around him. That was it. That was all there was to it, and the episodes only got worse and worse until Gilbert was waking up in alleyways three times a week and dammit he didn't even have a reason to have gotten this bad-

"Gilbert! Gil, are you alright?"

Gilbert was startled out of the memory by Matthew's near shout. For a moment, he was confused. Then he looked down at his arm, noticed the angry red lines risen above old scars, and slowly moved his hand away. He had not even realized. Familiar shame set in right as the pain did. "Oh." He quickly yanked his sleeves down. "Yeah. I was just thinking."

Matthew drew his eyebrows together in what looked like concern. "Do you think you can push your sleeves back up?"

The request was monumental. Gilbert pressed his arms instinctively against his body; almost unable to believe he had given in so early. Just like what had started this in the first place, it was over the stupidest thing. He felt his face warm. "Is that really necessary?"

"You're here to get better, Gil." Matthew smiled, and Gilbert quickly looked away. He felt like he didn't deserve that smile, somehow. "I'm not here to judge you, you know. I'm only trying to help."

He supposed he couldn't have hid it for very long anyway. Guided only by Matthew's gentle, unassuming gaze, Gilbert curled his fingers around the edge of his sleeve. He took a breath, looked up at the ceiling and pulled, like ripping off a Band-Aid. It was the only way to get through it. "It's really nothing," he mumbled.

"That doesn't look like nothing…"

"Well, it is." Gilbert glanced downward and was hit with a swell of vertigo. Running down his skin were ragged, twisted scratch marks. He was not even sure why he did this to himself. Maybe it had prevented transition once; maybe one day it made things a little better. But now he couldn't stop. He began to sense the beginnings of fog… but it cleared. It cleared because Matthew was touching his arm.

"It's alright. It's just another thing we can work on, Gil." Matthew smiled, gave his wrist a light squeeze and pulled away. Gilbert could only stare, a bit startled and somehow, a bit comforted. He wondered why Matthew kept using that nickname. As if he had read his mind- something Gilbert would not be all that surprised by- he added, "Oh, I'm sorry. Is it okay to call you that?"

"Yeah." Slowly, Gilbert pulled his sleeves back down his arms, marks forgotten. "That would be awesome."

"Alright." Matthew smiled at the ground, and for a moment he looked much younger than he was. He quickly shook his head and resumed a neutral expression. He was all business, out of nowhere. "How were you feeling when you started scratching?"

"Oh." Gilbert lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I was just remembering when he first showed up. It was over something really stupid. I don't even remember it all that clearly."

"The first time an alter appears doesn't always have to be monumental." Matthew spoke like he knew what Gilbert was talking about. Like he understood. Like, unlike his own brother, he believed him. "My best guess is that it was a build up, per say. The King was a long time coming, but that day just happened to push him over the edge."

That made sense. It made a lot of sense, actually, and Gilbert wondered why no other therapist had come to that conclusion in all these years. It seemed so simple. "I never thought about that before." Maybe it would make sense to Ludwig if he knew that… Gilbert shook his head. "Huh."

"And you only have one alter, correct?"

Gilbert nodded. Thankfully, The King was the only one he had to deal with. That wasn't to say it was anywhere near easy. Dealing with him was like living in a shed with five wild tigers. "Yep, it's just us." He attempted what was possibly a grin. "We're just kicking it."

Matthew laughed lightly at that. "Well, that certainly makes my job a lot easier. I once had a patient with twelve alters."

"Twelve? Are you serious?" Gilbert couldn't fathom it. Having one of these things to deal with tore him to pieces on a daily basis.

"Yes. One for each of the LA Lakers."

Matthew's expression was perfectly blank, and for a long moment, Gilbert could only stare. "You're not kidding." Matthew simply shook his head, and Gilbert could not help it- he laughed. It was such a weight off his shoulders, knowing there were people out there worse than him. "Wow. I sure hope you're paid well."

"They pay me enough, I suppose," said Matthew, his eyes focused on the clipboard in his lap. "I just want you to know there's nothing I haven't seen. It would be a pretty major victory to shock me." He looked up through half-lidded eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slight smile. Gilbert's pulse felt erratic.

"I might have to test you on that, Williams." It sounded like a joke, but Gilbert meant it. No matter how much Matthew had seen, The King was definitely something special.

"There will be plenty of time for that." Matthew broke eye contact to look at the clock on the desk. "I would say that was a successful introduction, but it seems we're out of time."

"Ah." Gilbert's stomach sunk when he remembered where he was. Ending this session meant walking back to his room, dealing with the stares, dealing with _Ivan…_ "Alright. Thanks."

"See you later, Gil."

"Yeah." Gilbert looked at Matthew, his violet eyes hidden behind thin glasses, his rumpled blond hair, his ridiculous red flannel shirt…and started to think this place wasn't all that bad. "Yeah, see you."

.

Matthew was like a meager dose of a hallucinogenic drug- when his presence faded, Gilbert did too.

It took only minutes after exiting Matthew's office for Gilbert to remember the situation, remember his surroundings, and hit a low point as quickly as the market on Black Thursday. It had been two days and his stay at the hospital already felt endless. Surrounded by people he didn't know and expectations he wasn't ready to meet, he felt as if he had been shot to another planet. When he asked when he would be able to leave, he was given a one-word response: "Depends."

As Gilbert sat in his room, staring at the white walls and avoiding Ivan, he wondered how Francis and Antonio were doing. He wondered if they hated him, if they could find it in themselves to visit him. There was so much down time he found himself alternating between reciting their numbers in his head, replaying the last few moments he remembered before being admitted, and attempting to put the puzzle pieces together. But it was in vain. No matter how hard he tried, the time between the moment he sat down at the bar and the moment he woke up bruised and restrained was nothing but a gaping black hole in his memory- just like so many other stretches of time he would never get back.

Every time he lost himself to these thoughts, Gilbert's arms ended up worse for wear. He spent so much time torturing himself that he was actually grateful when group therapy rolled around. At least it would serve as a distraction- and Matthew was the one who led the meetings.

It was unnerving, how everyone in the circle just stared at each other. Ivan was smiling, a far away look in his eyes as he twisted the end of his scarf around in his hand. Arthur just looked pissed, but then again, Arthur always looked pissed. The spikey-hair guy looked about ready to explode. After concluding that he really didn't want to listen to any of these people, Gilbert settled on staring at his shoes. He pretended not to notice when Matthew sat next to him.

"Hello, everyone," said Matthew once everyone was sitting. "We have some newcomers this time around." Gilbert pretended not to notice Matthew gesturing to him, either. However he continued to hang on to each word he spoke, because if there was one normal, pleasant thing about this place, it was Matthew. Listening took his mind off all the people looking at him.

He looked up only briefly when he heard boisterous, booming laughter. "Hell, wasn't that obvious? You two had the most dramatic entrances we've seen in ages!" It was the spikey-haired patient who spoke, loud and shrill. Gilbert looked down, an embarrassed blush taking residence in his face. He winced when his nails cut into his skin but didn't bother to stop himself. He couldn't even remember his entrance, but apparently he was infamous for it. Hopefully Ivan's was worse.

"Mathias." Matthew managed to sound at least somewhat commanding. Gilbert was grateful if not faintly shocked. "We don't need to bring that up. You are expected to be supportive."

The spikey-haired guy- Mathias, apparently- fell silent. Matthew smiled again before regaining control over the group. "How has everyone's week been? Is there anything anyone would like to share?"

Gilbert remained silent. He did not remember enough of the past two days to share anything, and even if he did, he was far too tired to even think about forming the words. Unsurprisingly, Mathias was the one to speak. Arthur cut in at some point, but after being accused of chanting into the ground by none other than Ivan, he stopped. Mathias started again, and he made even less sense than before. If anything, the majority of his rant consisted of fragmented pieces of what were probably complete thoughts at some point, jumping back and forth between some guy named Lukas, his plans to write a book, alcohol, and something about Vikings. Matthew attempted to stop him.

Ivan succeeded. "You are a strange, aggravating boy," he said. Mathias stopped speaking, and Ivan's slight smile turned malicious. "You should learn to keep your mouth shut. You sound, how do they say… insane."

It got to be too much. "You're one to talk, Ivan." Gilbert felt his resolve begin to slip away. It must have been the third time in two days. But he could not help it, because this was driving him insane. Ivan was obviously unstable. Just last night Gilbert had walked past the commons to see him sitting in the dark, his eyes glossed over, mumbling something about his 'sunflower,' and yet he had the nerve to accuse everyone else of insanity. "You're the one who waits hours everyday for someone who never comes. What did you call him? Sunflower?"

Ivan's posture stiffened at that, and Gilbert knew he had struck a nerve. "I would watch what you say…" Ivan stared at him with a harsh, chilling gaze, and Gilbert knew he was planning to attempt the same. And by god, he did. "German."

He had figured it out. Of course he had figured it out, it was made obvious his first night, and of course Gilbert shared a room with this psychopath. "Excuse me?" The scratching intensified, and again Gilbert's vision began to blur. He shook his head as if to shake off the inevitable, a desperate attempt to clear his clouded mind. _"Gott, _why do you try and start shit with everyone you see? No wonder no one visits you."

Ivan clenched his hands into shaking fists. "You are insane." His voice wavered, broke, but he kept speaking. "You are an insane, childish _German."_

The word blew into Gilbert's mind like a bullet. He lost control, his eyes closed, and blinding white took over.

_Click._

The King stood up, his chair clattering the ground, and he stared the Russian in the face. It was happening again. He could not believe Gilbert had nearly allowed it to happen again. "You want to fucking fight, commie?!"

He was beyond ready to fight this guy. God knows Gilbert wouldn't have the guts to. He nearly lurched forward, nearly slaughtered the Russian while everyone watched, but his attention was stolen by someone saying, "Okay." He turned in the direction of the sickeningly quiet voice, vision blurred with rage, and wondered momentarily why the hell this guy was wearing _flannel._ "I think we're done for today," he said, just as quiet and weak as the first time he spoke. Wait, this guy was in charge?

When the Russian stood up, he and The King held eye contact for a brief, stomach-turning moment. Then he smiled, gave a short, dismissive laugh and walked off. The King fought the urge to throttle him and instead turned his attention to this supposed therapist. For Christ's sakes, he looked like a damn _child. _The way he spoke, dressed, even the slouchy way he walked- it all got under his skin the moment he laid eyes on him. By some gut feeling, however, he knew Gilbert liked him. It was one of those things he picked up on just by sharing a body. With a smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth, he decided to follow him.

It was not until nearly a full minute later that the therapist turned around. He actually smiled, looking too gentle and too innocent. It was the kind of smile he could wipe off in a second. "Oh. Hello, Gil."

The King took a step closer. "I'm not Gilbert."

"Oh," he said again. "King? Or is it Fritz?"

Well, that certainly wasn't the kind of reaction he was used to getting. He wondered how much Gilbert had already told him. "Whatever floats your boat, princess." The King let his eyes graze over him, and he made sure to make it entirely obvious he was doing so. Laughter rose in his throat when the kid actually blushed. "And who would you be?"

"Dr. Williams." He took a small, possibly unconscious step backwards. "But you can call me Matthew."

"Matthew." It was a weak, cutesy name, befitting of a weak, cutesy boy. "How much did Gilbert tell you, sweetheart?"

Matthew began to look faintly annoyed. How cute. "He told me enough."

"Enough. Alright." The King got the feeling Matthew's emotions weren't as stable and perfect as he put on. He decided to test that theory. Taking another step forward, he took Matthew's sides in an iron grip. Matthew flinched and tried, unsuccessfully, to twist away. Yep, he was right- this kid couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. "Oh, you're going to be fun," he said under his breath.

Matthew lifted his chin in a way he probably thought was assertive. "You know, Fritz, I did tell Gilbert one thing." He tried again to step backwards. The King only tightened his grip. "You are nothing new. I'm well equipped to handle people like you."

"Oh, are you?" The King's eyes traveled lower, and he spotted a pen sticking out from Matthew's pocket. Before Matthew could so much as move, he dropped his hands and dove for it. It would do. "Well, I'll tell you what, kid." With one hard shove, he had Matthew against the wall, alarmed but obviously trying to hide it. With one flick of the wrist he had the tip of the pen to his throat. "I'm going to be something you've never seen before."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

Gilbert honestly could not believe Ivan had a visitor. What did make sense to him was how terrified the poor guy looked. The man Ivan called 'sunflower' was short, longhaired, and carried a look of nervousness he was obviously trying to hide. Matthew was the one to lead him in, almost if it had been arranged beforehand. For a moment Gilbert wondered what his motivation for coming was- pretending not to be annoyed, pretending not to be jealous- but he did not have much time to dwell on it.

"Gilbert, _mi amigo!_"

The voice was quick, familiar, and unexpected. His stomach in knots, Gilbert turned towards it so abruptly he nearly fell off the arm of the sofa and did a double take when he was met with not one surprise, but two. He then forgot about Ivan, forgot about the past two days and allowed a wide grin to appear on his face. "Antonio, Francis!" Gilbert stood and rushed over to the front of the room, almost surprised when he was met with a flurry of hugs and cheerful greetings. After the moment passed, he could not help but ask, "What the hell are you two doing here?"

Antonio slapped him playfully on the back. "What do you think, Gilbert? We didn't come to enjoy the view!"

Francis wrinkled his nose. "No, we certainly did not. This color scheme is inexcusable." He glanced around the room, unsure, and soon returned his attention to Gilbert with a small smile. "How have you been doing, _mon cher?" _

"I've been…" Gilbert trailed off. Now that the shock had faded, he remembered the circumstances and rising shame took residence in his gut. Out of all the things his friends had witnessed him doing over the years, sitting in a psych ward was by far the worst. And that was excluding whatever happened the night prior. "Well, I've sure as hell been better."

"Oh, Gilbert, please understand this was our only option!" Antonio was suddenly wide-eyed, suddenly apologetic. "We were so worried last night. We panicked. I apologize, you know we can usually control him, but this time…" He broke off when Francis patted his shoulder.

Gilbert held out his hands. Not once during all the time he spent thinking about these two did he expect this to happen. "Toni, calm down. I get it." At this point, Gilbert was surprised one of them hadn't taken him behind the shed and shot him. After all _he _had put all of them through, he would hardly even blame them. "I'm pretty sure I should be the one saying sorry." Really, he was pretty positive groveling at their feet for forgiveness wouldn't be unreasonable.

Francis smiled, though it didn't carry fully to his eyes. "What are you referring to?" he asked. Antonio looked about the same; his naivety just as feigned, but he said nothing.

They were acting like nothing happened. Gilbert felt an unforgiving stab of guilt when he realized that was exactly what they were doing- acting. It was not the first time, and frankly, it was entirely too bloody _decent_ for what Gilbert deserved. "Don't bother, Francis. Really. I woke up practically tied to a table. I know damn well I didn't walk in here."

It was almost surreal to see Antonio's perpetual smile finally fall. "How much did they tell you, exactly?"

"Enough to know whatever happened was a train wreck." Gilbert grimaced, remembering, and forced the pieced together image of his entrance to the back of his mind. There were still pieces missing that he had to find. "The last thing I remember is sitting with you guys in that bar."

"Well, Gilbert," Francis clapped a hand on his shoulder, "maybe that is enough for now."

"Oh, _Scheiße…_" mumbled Gilbert as he ran his hands down his face. If they wouldn't even tell him, how bad could it have been? He knew he needed to know, that he should ask again, but he couldn't. He just didn't want to know anymore. All he truly wanted to know was, "Guys, are we alright?" It sounded far more pitiful than he intended, but just about everything about this was pitiful.

"Oh, darling, of course!" exclaimed Francis. "We understand your situation, Gilbert. We blame him, not you. That's how it has always been."

Antonio nodded along and said, "We're… concerned, Gil. Not angry." When he smiled this time it was genuine, and it took a weight the size of a building off Gilbert's shoulders. He was so lucky to have friends like these; god knows he didn't always deserve them.

"Alright, awesome." Feeling slightly more comfortable, Gilbert motioned his friends towards the couch and sat down. Then, for what was possibly the first time since he met them, he ran out of words. What more was there to say, really? They were sitting in a damn psych ward. Considering the elephant in the room, conversation was hardly coming easy.

Thankfully, Antonio was always good at speaking- no matter the circumstances. "So, what's it like here?" The question was so casual, as if he was asking about a hotel rather than a hospital.

"Oh, just awesome. It's practically the Four Seasons." Gilbert slung his arm around the back of the sofa, crossing his leg over his knee. With Francis and Antonio there, things almost felt normal. Almost. "Really, though. Its pretty damn structured. I'm surprised these people aren't telling me when to take a shit." He laughed at that, but it soon died when he glanced towards his room. "I fucking hate my roommate."

"Already?" asked Francis. "Why, it's barely been a few days!"

Really, it had taken Gilbert all of a few seconds to decide that he hated Ivan. How could he not, when his alter immerged so quickly and violently within minutes of meeting him? Fritz didn't seem all that fond of Ivan either. At least they agreed on something. "Yes, already," he said. He noticed the skeptical looks of his friends and scoffed. "Hey, I have a perfectly good reason! The guy is a psychopath. It's like he _wants _to trigger me." Gilbert cut himself off, dropped his fiery gaze. "He already figured it out."

"Figured it out?" Antonio paused as if to think. Soon, his eyes shot wide open. "Oh, no."

Francis let his hand fly to his chest. "The g-word," he said with a sigh, shaking his head. "Oh, Gilbert, _mon cher. _That is truly awful. You're telling us he does it on purpose?"

"Affirmative." Gilbert glanced to his sides instinctually, as if he expected Ivan to be lurking in the shadows or something. He fought the urge to roll his eyes when he realized what he was doing. This place just put him on edge. "Seriously, I don't think he's ever come out that quickly. He even tried to get to me during group, but-" Gilbert stopped speaking abruptly when he actually thought back to group therapy- and realized he did not remember the meeting actually ending. He didn't remember much of anything after it, either. The last thing he remembered was Ivan calling him… oh, no. Gilbert grit his teeth and slammed his fist into the cousin, causing both his friends to jump. "Oh, goddammit!"

Antonio lurched forward and covered Gilbert's hand, forcing him to uncurl his fist. "Gil," he said carefully. "What happened?"

Gilbert pulled his hand back. "I transitioned last night. Again."

Francis and Antonio wore watching looks of sympathy mixed with something that was almost disappointment. Gilbert looked away. He had grown to know that look all too well over the years. "Do know what happened? Anything at all?" asked Francis finally.

"Not a damn thing." Just like his entrance, Gilbert had a sickening feeling that he didn't actually want to remember. An even stronger pang of nausea set in when he remembered Matthew was in charge of that meeting. Oh god, what if The King said something to him? But there was almost no doubt in his mind that he had, because Matthew was kind and he hated anything kind. Gilbert rubbed his temples, hoping for the best but fully expecting the worst, anxiety already clawing at his throat and a headache already setting in when he realized he would have to figure it out eventually-

"Good afternoon, Gil."

Gilbert nearly gave himself whiplash when he snapped his head upwards and turned to see Matthew, wearing a flannel shirt just as ridiculous and unprofessional as yesterday's, carrying a tote bag that was practically bigger than him. His stomach did a backflip. "Oh." His voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat and pretended not to notice. "Uh…" Had speaking always been this complicated? "Morning." _Dammit. _Apparently it was.

Thankfully, Matthew did not seem to notice his error- or maybe he just had the decency to ignore it. "I had to get some things from my car." He switched the bag to his other hand and smiled at Antonio and Francis. "Are these your friends?"

Gilbert almost managed a response, but Francis leapt from his seat like it was spring loaded before he was able. "We are indeed Gilbert's friends." He flashed a smile befitting of a fashion model, flipped his hair easily over his shoulder and held out his hand. "My name is Francis. And who would you be, darling?"

Matthew accepted his handshake, his smile professional. "Dr. Matthew Williams, but I believe we've met before."

Francis's hand flew to his chest in feigned horror. "Oh, of course! Please excuse my forgetfulness. That night was rather stressful," he said, sounding overly apologetic. "I am positive I would never forget such a lovely face otherwise. Not in a million years." Francis let his hand linger on Matthew's for a moment longer than strictly necessary, and Gilbert had the sudden urge to throttle him. Francis lowered his gaze and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, how rude of me. Would you like some help with that bag, Matthew? It looks a bit big for you to handle on your own."

Matthew began a rushed response. "Oh, no, that's fine, really-"

"Please, allow me." Francis continued easily, as if he had not even heard him. It would hardly be surprising, considering how quietly Matthew spoke. But Gilbert heard every word.

"Hey, Franny, I think he's got it." Gilbert smirked but kept his gaze firm; hoping if he stared hard enough Francis would get the hint. Maybe he wanted to help Matthew with his damn bag. He half-considered getting up and doing just that, and he probably would have if Antonio hadn't been squeezing his knee with enough force to physically hold him to the seat. It _did _look heavy. Probably too heavy for Francis.

Francis made a flippant motion over his shoulder with his hand. "Oh, very well." He looked at Matthew though half-lidded eyes, grinned and touched his shoulder. "It was lovely speaking to you again, Matthew. Take care of our Gilbert, yes?"

Matthew smiled simply, seemingly unaffected by Francis's charms. "Oh, I think he'll be just fine." His gaze flitted over Francis's shoulder and he locked eyes with Gilbert, who immediately straightened his posture though he pretended he didn't. "See you later, Gil." Matthew turned and started down the hall to his office.

Francis twisted around in a way that almost looked choreographed, raised an eyebrow and rested his hand on his cocked hip. "Well, I see why you didn't tell us about him!"

Gilbert rolled his eyes, all too aware of the flush on his face. He chose to ignore the fact that he hadn't had contact with anyone since he got here. With his life falling to shambles around him, gossiping about his therapist- no matter if he was cute or not- was the last thing on his mind. Well, at least Francis was acting normal. "Will you calm down, Francis? I've barely been here three days!"

Antonio, who had been an unfortunate bystander, sighed and shook his head. "Francis, I believe we have had the discussion about hitting on Gil's therapists."

Francis reclaimed his spot on the sofa and shrugged. "I'm aware, Antonio. Besides," He shot Gilbert a mischievous glance, "It seems Matthew already has eyes for someone."

Gilbert ignored the strange twist in his stomach and forced himself to roll his eyes, forced himself to push the possibility out of his mind. No, ridiculous. "Don't be stupid. He's my _therapist._" The word still felt uncomfortable on Gilbert's lips. He quickly changed the subject. "It wouldn't matter if he did, anyway. You guys know I don't date." Just like that, reality crashed back into him like an avalanche. Gilbert had his reasoning behind avoiding the dating world like the black plague- the majority of those reasons involving the insidious other half of his personality that could immerge at any given moment. Involving someone else in that kind of mess would be unfair at best and downright cruel at worst.

"You dated Elizabeta," Antonio supplied.

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, years ago. How long did that even last, like, a month? She hit The King over the head with a frying pan after he called her 'sugar-tits,' and I had to deal with the concussion."

Francis tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I believe she may actually work here."

Antonio nodded. "So does her fiancé!"

"_Enough._" Gilbert pinched the bridge of his nose. This was not the kind of thing he needed to be reminded of right now. Everyone in his life had moved on to bigger and better things and he was still stuck here, forever running in circles, forever unhappy. He closed his eyes tighter, tried desperately to even his breathing. It was not until Antonio grabbed his wrist that he realized he had been scratching. The shame only intensified, and all he could do was sigh.

"Gil," said Antonio gently, "You said you would try to kick that habit."

"I know, alright? I get it!" Gilbert slammed his hands on his knees and threw his head back. No matter how hard they tried, he often got the feeling his friends did not completely understand his situation at all. The faint spark of anger in his blood died when he realized how dangerous that emotion could be. After a slow, cleansing breath, he said, "Sorry. I'm trying." He managed a slight smile, though it took effort. It was safer than continuing to frown. "I guess that's why I'm here." There was no sense in denying it.

"And we'll be right here when you get out," said Antonio with a smile.

Francis nodded. "We'll make sure to visit whenever we can, _mon cher." _

Though his mind was still cluttered and his body still felt heavy, Gilbert smiled and nodded. Maybe Francis and Antonio did not understand completely, but he was damn lucky to have them. If it wasn't for them, he was sure he would not still be standing.

.

"Your friends seem nice."

Gilbert supposed he had better get used to staring at the cuffs of Matthew's absurd flannel shirts- today's was orange- since that was the only way he could get through these sessions without dying of shame. And this time it was not even because of what got him here to begin with. "Sorry about Francis. He has trouble keeping it in his pants."

Matthew breathed a short, flippant laugh. "My brother's friends can be much worse, believe me."

Gilbert finally looked up, a bit shocked. They better damn well not be. After all, at least he _knew _Francis. As soon as he realized how ridiculous his thoughts were getting, Gilbert pushed them back and reprimanded himself. "Oh, uh…" _Keep cool, Gil. _"You have a brother?"

Matthew half-smiled. "This session isn't about me."

"Oh, come on. One little question won't hurt." While Gilbert would do just about anything to take the attention off himself, he could not deny that he was a little curious.

There was that silence again. "You may know him. I would be shocked if you didn't, really…" Matthew's face abruptly fell. He twisted his hands together, looked into his lap and finished even more quietly than he had already been speaking. "His name is Alfred. Alfred F. Jones."

The name seemed familiar, but only faintly. Gilbert felt like he had heard it in passing or something. Still, he couldn't see why Matthew seemed so sure that he would know him. "I've got nothing."

"Really? Oh, wow." Matthew smiled again, and Gilbert could not help but be intrigued. Maybe he wasn't the only one in this place with family issues. "Well, I guess that makes sense, considering you're Prussian and not American."

Hearing Matthew refer to him as Prussian rather than the alternative left Gilbert feeling almost embarrassingly relieved and happy. He fought back the pervasive feeling, leaned back in the chair and asked, "Why were you so sure I'd know the guy? Is he famous or something?"

"I'd say so. Alfred is the quarterback for the New England Patriots."

Oh. It made sense that Gilbert wouldn't know him, then. He was never a fan of American football. "That's…pretty awesome, I guess." He shrugged. "Doesn't seem like too big of a deal, honestly."

Matthew went from looking surprised to strangely, powerfully relieved. "Wow. I can't say I've gotten that reaction before. I'm so used to people freaking out over him, and-" He suddenly broke off, shook his head and mumbled something along the lines of _what am I doing. _When he lifted his head, he was no longer smiling. "Anyway," He was back to business, back to being professional. "I understand you also have a brother? How's your relationship with him?"

If there was one question that could keep Gilbert from breathing, stop his heart, and send his thoughts into a whirlwind of pain and regret, it was that one. The burning beneath his skin ignited again. He grew so focused on ignoring it that formulating a response was impossible, and again he was reduced to incompetent stuttering. "Oh, uh, I mean, it's…" _Terrible, torturous, heartbreaking, stressful… _"Fine."

.

He was not supposed to be here.

Deep down, Gilbert knew he would not be able to avoid him forever. He did work in the building, after all. But that did not mean he was ready to see him, that his blood did not freeze in his veins, that he did not feel punched in the stomach when he met his ice blue eyes. "Ludwig," said Gilbert in a low, hoarse whisper. He had not seen his brother in months. And the last placed he wanted to run into him again was here.

The hall was empty, save for them, and it suddenly felt like a standoff. Ludwig straightened the collar under his lab coat, cleared his throat and acknowledged Gilbert with a raised eyebrow, obviously attempting to mask his shock. "Hello, Gilbert." His voice was controlled, just like everything else about him. "I received word you would be here."

"Did you?" Gilbert leaned against the wall- maybe in an attempt to be casual, maybe because he did not trust his legs. "Uh…who told you?"

"Dr. Williams. I _do _work here, Gilbert."

Ludwig had a way of sounding so condescending. He wore his title like an air of superiority, as if having 'Doctor' in front of his surname raised him to godly status. Maybe he did not even notice it. Gilbert did. "Yeah, well…" His voice dropped off, because there was nothing to say.

Looming silence fell over them. Ludwig kept his eyes trained on his clipboard, his shoulders ridged. A broken light flickered in the background, and Gilbert could only stare at it. After a minute that felt like a year, Ludwig said, "What did you do?"

Maybe he was not trying to sound accusatory, but it came across that way regardless. Gilbert adverted his eyes. "_I _didn't do anything," he said. Maybe this was in vain, but he could damn well at least try to stand his ground. "I've explained this to you a million times, Luddy. Its Fritz who causes all the trouble."

Ludwig huffed and nearly rolled his eyes, but he kept his perpetual professionalism. "Please, do not start."

"What do you mean, don't-" Gilbert cut himself off and took a long, cleansing breath. No, he would not lose control. "You know, I would think you'd at least be pretending to understand this by now. You're always going on about being a doctor. Don't they teach you this shit in medical school?"

"Not really, no." Ludwig tore his eyes from his clipboard and folded his arms. "I treat real diseases."

A spark of anger, a rush of fog, and a sudden burning hit at the same time. Gilbert scraped his nails against his arm. "What the hell?" he nearly shouted. _"Real _diseases? What is that supposed to mean?" He fought to hold himself together, but he was quickly losing the battle. Ludwig knew all of his buttons, and he always managed to push every one of them.

Ludwig closed his eyes painfully. "I did not mean it like that." He sounded as if he was about to apologize, but of course he didn't.

"Yes, you did." Because Ludwig always meant it like that. He did not understand; he did not even try. "I know you probably think I do this just to piss you off, Ludwig, but that isn't true."

"I never said that." Ludwig sounded too calm.

"You didn't have to!" Gilbert only looked away when he felt something slick on the tip of his finger. He was bleeding. Of course, of course he had managed to draw blood again, and of course Ludwig was looking at him like he would a hungry tiger in a cage. Too-familiar dizziness hit, and he knew he had to get away very, very fast. "Look, whatever, I should probably just go back to my room."

"I suppose." Ludwig's voice was not coming in clearly anymore. It took all Gilbert had not to break off in a wild run. The urge only intensified when Ludwig stepped closer, his eyes suddenly softer. "I do wish you would talk to me. I am only trying to help."

Gilbert turned to face him again, confused and quickly growing dangerously angry. "Help me?" he spat. "By saying I make all this shit up?"

"I never said that-"

"Yes, you did. You say it all the damn time."

Ludwig closed his eyes and let out a breath. "All I said was you need to stop hiding behind a label. You cannot blame all your problems on another personality, Gilbert. It is not getting you anywhere." Gilbert felt his breath grow erratic, his pulse pound heavy against his ribs. This fog was getting heavier; he could barely hear Ludwig anymore, barely feel his hand when he clapped it awkwardly on his shoulder. He was trapped. He needed to get away quickly, immediately… "You need to take responsibility for your own actions."

Then there was only blinding white.

_Click. _

"Get your fucking hands off me!" The King lurched backwards, teeth barred, and stared his familiar worst enemy dead in the face. He knew he needed to get out the moment he saw Gilbert with him, because Ludwig just pissed him off too much. He could not even help himself.

Ludwig lifted his chin in what he probably thought was a commanding manner, but he took a cautious step backwards anyway. "Gilbert, what on earth-"

"I'm not Gilbert, asshole. How many times do I have to tell you that?" He noticed the blood on his arm, wiped it haphazardly, and grimaced. Gilbert always did a terrible job of taking care of the body.

_"__Gilbert," _said Ludwig firmly, his face twisting in disgust. "Cut it out."

This time, The King actually laughed. "Oh, I forgot. You don't believe I actually exist." He jabbed his thumb into his chest and squared his shoulders. "Well, I'm right here, so you don't really have a choice. You're pretty slow for a doctor, you know that?"

"This is absolutely ridiculous." Ludwig twisted around, throwing his hand into the air dismissively as he started down the hall. "I cannot deal with you when you're like this. Goodbye, Gilbert."

"I'M NOT FUCKING GILBERT!" The King nearly tore after him. He knew he could very easily catch him, choke him out, destroy him once and for all, but he decided not to bother. Ludwig and his haughty bullshit were not worth his time. But when he glanced down the opposite end of the hall, saw the short, bewildered looking Asian man he knew the Russian was tied to, he spotted an opportunity that was. Maybe he could not get to Ludwig, but he could damn well get to someone else. A smirk crossed his face as he walked back to the room.

"Hey commie, did your little pet finally escape?"

* * *

_To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

Gilbert had long since grown accustomed to the fog.

It crept up on him like a snake, took hold of him in its clutches, and slipped into his mind in a cold, deadly haze, pulling him down, down, until nothing was real and Gilbert was gone. Sometimes he could sense what was happening, what his body was doing when he was away from it- a jumbled sentence, an intangible shout, a shock of pain. But Gilbert could not do anything about it. He could not move, could barely breathe, could only think in torn segments. He was entirely powerless to his King.

Very rarely, when Gilbert had the energy and the drive and the plain luck, he could fight through it. Sometimes there were moments of clarity, moments when he saw something infuriating enough that he had no choice but to fight. It was like working his way out of a pit of tar- frustrating, suffocating, usually futile. When The King had attempted to fight Antonio, it had been one of those times. When he nearly swerved Gilbert's car into a building at ninety miles an hour, it was one of those times. But when Gilbert was faced with Ludwig, forced to listen to his cruel words, forced to see the look of distain in his ice-blue eyes, it was not one of those times. Sometimes Gilbert almost wanted The King to fight his battles.

It cleared far quicker then it set in. When Fritz decided he had enough, when consequences were beginning to arise and he wanted Gilbert to deal with them, reality came flooding back in a surge of blinding white and breathless gasps. Then Gilbert would wake up- bruised, battered, lost and hated as a result of crimes he did not commit.

At least it was not an alleyway this time. It took a moment for Gilbert to register the white ceiling above him, the cushion pressed to his face and the familiar soreness throbbing across the skin of his arms. His limbs were sprawled across the couch in the lounge, his neck at an odd angle and his throat dry, likely from screaming things he would evidently not remember. The first thing he became aware of was the headache pounding against his temples. The second was that he was very, very tired.

Groaning out of pain and fatigue, Gilbert forced himself up, gripped his hair, and squinted against the florescent lights. This was far worse than a hangover. What time was it, anyway? Almost as soon as the thought passed, Gilbert got the strange, uncomfortable feeling that he was not alone. He had fallen asleep in the middle of the damned hospital, after all. Suddenly very awake, Gilbert twisted around and looked up.

Matthew stood a few feet away, his eyes fixed on the floor, gripping a plastic water bottle in his right hand. Gilbert choked back an involuntary gasp and Matthew raised his eyes, suddenly smiling. "Oh, you're awake."

Gilbert immediately wished he wasn't. There was no doubt in his mind that he looked certifiably insane, splayed out on the couch like a drunk, dried blood on his arm and his clothes twisted around his body. It certainly was not the first time he had woken in this state, but he was fairly sure he had never been this embarrassed about it. He ran his hand across his knotted hair, wiped his bleary eyes and folded his arms over his chest. "Yeah," he said. "I thought this couch looked… comfortable. So I slept here." He cringed as he said it, but attempted something that was almost a smirk anyway. Even if he could not do anything to make himself look any better, Gilbert was unwilling to look even more pathetic.

Matthew had the decency not to question his lie. He stepped forward, pressed the water into Gilbert's hand, and sat next to him as if this was all completely normal. Maybe to him, it was. "Make sure to drink that. Your lips are chapped, and I think you might be dehydrated."

"I…oh." It hurt to speak, and Gilbert suddenly became aware of how thirsty he actually was. He twisted the cap off and gulped nearly all of it down, and for a brief moment he was almost able to forget this strange, humiliating situation. This was probably the first time he had woken up like this and not found himself either alone or being stared at like a sideshow freak. Unsure how to feel about that, he only wiped his mouth and grinned. "So, you just decided to watch me sleep?"

Matthew chuckled. "No, I just got here. I was worried you were sick."

Well, he wouldn't exactly be wrong. Gilbert glanced at Matthew out of the corner of his eye, both confused and captivated by his gentle concern and lack of judgment. It was foreign, just a little unnerving, but mostly just refreshing. Gilbert had been prepared to defend himself and to deny everything that happened, but now his mind was clear, his headache was fading, and for the first time since checking in, he felt safe. Gilbert focused his eyes on the water bottle as he spoke, mainly to himself, not really thinking about the words. "So I was here all night." He forced a laugh but it ended up sounding strangled. "Alright, good to know. Now, if I could just figure out what got me here, the day would be off to an awesome start."

It was meant to be a joke, but Matthew did not look amused. His hardened eyes pierced his skin, no longer smiling, and Gilbert wished he had not said anything at all. The fleeting sense of security passed, and he forced himself to return to reality. Matthew was his therapist. He was not Francis, he was not Antonio, and joking around with him was a ridiculous thing to do. Stupid, stupid… "What happened, Gil?"

"Uh…" Gilbert just sighed. It was inevitable. "I transitioned again," he mumbled around the lip of the bottle. His face flushed, and he decided against explaining further.

"Are you alright?"

Gilbert had to consider the question. Was he alright? Well, he was not physically sick, he was not injured, and now he was at least hydrated. But then again, he had just woken up on a couch in a psychiatric ward, no idea what got him there, what happened last night, or what consequences he would have to deal with. All he knew was that his brother thought he crazy. "I…" Then, Gilbert glanced to the side. He locked eyes with Matthew, saw his gentle smile, and realized that right now, no one was judging him. His answer changed. "I'm doing fine, thanks."

"Good." Matthew stood as he said it, and Gilbert had to fight the ridiculous urge to either grab his arm or follow him. "Remember we have group today, Gil. I'll see you there."

As Matthew walked away, Gilbert forced himself to return to reality. Group. Group meant sharing his problems with these maniacs, being looked at like he was a leper, Ivan antagonizing him, and having Matthew witness all of it. And it was far from the last time. Gilbert remembered how tired he was. His headache intensifying again, he lied back down, curled his knees to his chest, and tried to block out the world.

.

Sometimes, Matthew felt as if he was losing his touch. Today was one of those days.

He sat in a chair at the top of the circle, trying to keep a smile on his face; fully aware he was the only one doing so. The silence was just strange. Arthur was glaring into the distance, one leg tucked tightly under the other, his lips pursed and his chin tipped upward. That was nothing new. Mathias was staring at the ground, seemingly entranced by the swinging motion of his legs. That was nothing new, either. The first unusual thing he noticed was how Ivan looked. His bright, previously eternal smile was gone, replaced by a slight frown, darkened, lost eyes and trembling hands. The second thing Matthew noticed was Gilbert had not arrived yet.

It did not take long to put two and two together. Ivan was fine yesterday, Gilbert claimed to have transitioned the night prior, and now, Ivan had inexplicably broken to pieces. Matthew looked down at his hands and sighed. Never had he been faced with a group of patients this difficult or hard to figure out, and on top of that, they all clashed with each other. And somehow, Matthew had to single-handedly put them back together as quickly as possible. It was simply his job.

"Are we going to start this bloody thing?" snapped Arthur. "We've been sitting here staring at each other for nearly ten blasted minutes!"

"Yes, Arthur. We're just waiting for everyone to get here." Arthur just clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. Matthew ignored him, looked over his shoulder and briefly considered tracking down Gilbert himself. Anxiety thrummed through his blood, tightened his chest and threw his thoughts in a jumble. He hoped Gilbert was still around. The last thing he needed was Fritz running amuck, barging in at the worst possible second, screaming about communists and upsetting Ivan even further. How would he explain _that_ to his colleagues? More importantly, how would he fix it? Matthew bit the inside of his cheek, hard. What if, what if…

The chair next to his scraped against the floor with a loud squeak. Matthew's breath caught as his eyes snapped sideways, hoping for the best and expecting the worst, his mind already reeling. But Gilbert was silent, his shoulders slumped and his eyes without fire. Matthew knew he should be relieved… but there was something about the dejection in Gilbert's posture, the absence of his smirk and the raw red lines in his skin that made that not so. From the corner of his vision, Matthew saw Ivan use his foot to scoot his chair further away.

"Finally, your highness is here." Arthur gave a short laugh, bent forward in a mock bow and waved his hand in an extravagant motion. "How are we doing, your majesty?"

Gilbert closed his eyes briefly, his shoulders tensed and his hand jerking to his arm. Matthew's stomach fell. Thirty seconds in and this was already going terribly. "Good afternoon, Gil." He hoped to sound casual, but that was difficult when the atmosphere was so heavy and the stakes were so high. "How are you feeling?"

Gilbert just shook his head. His hand did not move, did not slow, and the marks on his arm only grew worse. Matthew felt a jolt of unfamiliar anger and shot Arthur a firm disapproving glance. Arthur just shrugged and turned his attention to the window.

Matthew looked to Gilbert again, scrambling for a solution, for something to say, but sometimes words were not enough. Since everyone else looked far off and preoccupied, he slowly reached across and covered Gilbert's offending hand with his own. He was not sure what else he could do besides whisper. "Be gentle with yourself, please." Gilbert froze at the words. His eyes pierced Matthew's skin, but he looked away just as quickly and finally moved his hand to his knee with guarded deliberateness.

Matthew smiled. At least he had done one thing right.

The session passed interminably. No matter what questions Matthew asked, no matter how encouraging he tried to be, all they did was glance at him like the words were gibberish before dissolving back into their own worlds. Ivan and Gilbert were the quietest; so quiet it was actually distracting, to the point it tore Matthew's attention from the few things Mathias and Arthur managed to say. Matthew was certain he had never had so much trouble getting two words out of a group this size. It was simply, ridiculous.

But the daunting silence was not the only thing that was distracting. While Ivan fixed his eyes on the floor, unmoving and expressionless, Gilbert kept looking at Matthew. That alone spoke far louder than his refusal to speak. It was a series of fleeting, almost wistful glances, just long enough to snatch Matthew's attention but short enough that they never quite locked eyes. It was slightly unnerving and entirely distracting. But Matthew was not upset by… just slightly confused, and strangely intrigued.

It was not so much that the session ended than Matthew simply gave up on it. He was halfway through some useless question when he realized no one was even listening, faltered in his speech, and after a second of silence that felt like a year, he realized Gilbert was looking at him again. Matthew turned, and this time, Gilbert did not turn way. This time he held Matthew's gaze, his eyes glossed over, looking almost… pleading. Then Matthew forgot what he saying all together.

After a long, resigned sigh, he forced his eyes forward and said, "Okay. That's quite enough for today." No one stood immediately- they all looked far too tired to, really. Matthew decided to take advantage of the pause. He reached under his chair, unzipped the duffel bag he had stashed under it, and kicked it into the middle of the circle. In it was a pile of journals. If he was not going to get these people to speak, he was going to get them to write.

"Take a journal on your way out, please. You can write whatever you'd like, whenever you'd like, and keep it private if you wish. All I ask is that you write _something._" Though he was exhausted, frustrated, and terribly disappointed with himself, Matthew took a cleansing breath and forced a smile. "Have a lovely day, everyone."

Finally, the group began to clear out. Matthew felt physically ill- because it was his job to make this group of people feel better, to open up, and nearly all of them looked worse off than when they sat down. His mind flew in a million different directions, one for every one of his patients' problems, unsure where he could even start. Matthew ran over his options, remembered something he had scheduled for that day and leapt from his seat. "Ivan?"

Ivan was slow to turn. His blond hair fell into his eyes, but he did not bother to brush it away. His hands remained locked on the scarf he had not been seen without once since he arrived. Unsurprisingly, he did not speak and only raised an eyebrow. Matthew felt his chest seize. Though the Russian had been nothing but uncooperative, childishly cruel- and, on one occasion, violent- since he had arrived, there was still something very wrong about seeing him miserable. But Matthew had a solution his time. He cut right to the chase. "Yao is visiting today."

Ivan's lips parted, and suddenly, his deadened eyes came back to life. But he threw his gaze to the ground just as quickly. "Are you sure?"

Matthew nodded. He and Yao had a rather… unusual agreement, one that involved a paycheck and confidential meetings after Ivan went back to his room. Still, Yao kept the patient calm, he got the information Matthew needed to treat him, and that was all that mattered right now. "Yes, I just spoke to him. He'll be here around six."

"Six." Ivan swallowed hard, his hand tensing around the scarf. "Thank you." The words were strained, and he went from moving in slow motion to walking to his room much, much too quickly. Matthew sucked his lip against his teeth. That was not the reaction he expected, much less the one he wanted. This was just a bad day all around.

When Matthew was positive all his patients had locked themselves away in their rooms, he let out a low, frustrated groan. No matter what he did, these men never seemed to take him seriously. He had a sneaking suspicious half of them didn't even know his name. On days like these, which were growing more and more frequent, he actually had to restrain himself from screaming at the top of his lungs, running out the door and never coming back.

But of course Matthew could not do that, so he simply took a breath and turned back to the circle to collect his things… and nearly fell over out of shock, because Gilbert was still sitting there, his eyes glossed over and fixated on the journal in his hands. Matthew could only stare. Just when he thought things could not possibly get any weirder…

Gilbert blinked a few times and lifted his eyes, just as slowly and listlessly as he'd been moving all day. "Oh," was the first thing he said. He snapped the book closed, staggered to his feet and started forward. Matthew could only watch, mostly concerned, partially confused, and in some strange, cruel way, fascinated. His thoughts pulled him so far beneath the current that his breath was knocked from him when he felt a hand on his shoulder, heard a tired voice. "See you later, Matthew."

Matthew could not help but watch as the strange, confusing, troubled man before him shuffled down the hall. He was nowhere close to understanding where Gilbert's demons had come from, what had happened that would cause his personality to split, how he could brush it off with humor just as easily as he withdrew into himself- just like he still hadn't a clue why Ivan was so affected by a man he did not even know, or why Arthur could chant endlessly at nothing and deny ever doing so in the same breath.

But Matthew did know one thing. Gilbert was already beginning to keep the promise The King had made: he could very well be something Matthew had never seen before. Only time would tell, and judging by how well Gilbert was doing, they had a lot of it.

Matthew really should not have been smiling.

.

Feeling nervous minutes before a session was probably not the most professional thing in the world. Still, Matthew could not help but feel strangely on-edge as he shuffled through Gilbert's file. Maybe he worried the wrong person would burst through his door, or neither Gilbert nor his undesirable other half would bother attending, or, worst case scenario, this session would pass just as unproductively and interminably as group. Matthew forced his hands to steady and his breath to even. One bad session with a tricky group of patients would not break him.

The creaking of the door startled Matthew out of his thoughts. He looked up, heart in his throat, to see Gilbert waltz inside and settle on the couch with a flourish. He was not exactly smiling, but he did not look seconds from death, either, and there was no unquenchable fire in his eyes. Gilbert looked himself, whatever that meant. The air rushed back into Matthew's lungs in what felt like an internal sigh of relief. "Afternoon, Gil," he said with a faint smile. "Feeling any better?"

Gilbert acknowledged the question with a slight inclination of his chin. "Yeah. I got some rest. Last night left me drained, you know? This place can be like a frat party."

And there was that inappropriate humor again. Matthew was torn between breaking the silence with nervous laughter and shooting Gilbert a questioning glance, so he settled on looking at his papers without actually reading a single word. Without looking up, he said, "You were awfully quiet this afternoon."

"Oh." Gilbert shrugged, with what looked to be an attempt at an arrogant grin on his lips. It still was not the same. "I didn't have anything to say, and by the looks of it, neither did anyone else. Speaking of which, what the hell is up with Ivan? All he does is sit in our room and stare at…nothing. It's creeping me out."

Matthew immediately noticed how quickly and effortlessly Gilbert shifted the focus from himself. He did not even seem to do it consciously. Pushing that aside, however, the mention of Ivan hit like a hailstorm. When Matthew met Gilbert's gaze, he saw no dishonestly or smugness in his eyes. He truly had no idea what had caused this. "Gil, when did you say you transitioned?"

Gilbert pressed his lips into a thin line. "Sometime last night."

"Ivan has been like this since this morning."

A moment of silence, a blank stare, and finally whatever mental block Gilbert was harboring lifted. His eyes shot open in bewildered understanding. "Well, shit." He glanced towards the door, almost as if he expected Ivan to burst from it. Then, without warning, he actually laughed. Matthew stayed silent. Perhaps he was too shocked to speak. "Old Fritz managed to get to him? I guess he does something right once in awhile, then."

Even though he was laughing, Matthew could see the conflict in his eyes as his hand tensed on the arm of the sofa. He knew that Gilbert did not like Ivan, that much was plain to see, but something told him he was not nearly as prideful about it as he let on. Gilbert did not strike him as needlessly cruel. Pushing that aside, Matthew asked, "Do you remember what led up to last night? Anything at all?"

Gilbert's grin fell like the wall of Berlin. His eyes flicked to the door, to the whites walls, to the floor- just about everywhere that was not Matthew. Eventually he forced another smile, this one even more transparent than the last. "Can't say I do."

Matthew frowned, but he was strangely thankful that Gilbert was not a good liar. That made his job the slightest bit easier. "Really? Nothing?" He conveyed his skepticism with his eyes, but if years of doing this had taught him anything, it was that pushing a patient to speak would only accomplish the opposite.

Gilbert crossed his arms over this chest, pressing his back further into the couch, his shoulders stiff and his eyes still locked on some far off place. "That's right." His tone was low, controlled. "Nothing."

For a moment Matthew was almost completely certain that if he tried, he could reach out and physically touch the wall that had spontaneously shot up between them. In the span of one day, Gilbert had gone from lost in a stupor, to deadly silent, to nearly himself. They had almost gotten somewhere. Now, they were back at square one. For the second time that hour, Matthew felt a scream brewing inside him that he was fortunately able to keep down. "Alright. No problem at all." It would not be a problem unless Matthew allowed it to be one. And he wasn't. "Anyway, how are you adjusting otherwise? I know you and Ivan don't particularly get along."

Gilbert gave a short laugh and rolled his eyes. "Ain't that the truth? Well, other than that, I'm doing just awesome. Can't really complain."

"It's actually my job to listen to you 'complain,' you know. Please, don't hold back." Matthew smiled after he said it, hoping to get somewhere, wondering why he felt almost restless and Gilbert seemed to stare right through him.

"Your job." Gilbert raised his eyebrows, almost as though this was news to him. He nodded once, curt and ridged, his eyes suddenly on the floor again. "Right."

The rest of the session was generic, all 'how do you feel about this' and 'how does that make you feel,' punctuated by endless nodding, moments of eye contact held for too long, and the guarded, impermeable wall between them. It was placid; it was uneventful. By the time it drew to a close, Matthew could not stop the creeping feeling of frustration from clawing at his throat. The past couple days, he had grown to be nearly convinced that Gilbert was…different. That he, unlike the others, actually took Matthew seriously. On an even more selfish note, he had hoped this would be his 'big case': the near-miraculous recovery of a seemingly hopeless patient that would put Dr. Matthew Williams on the map. But perhaps he had jumped to a conclusion too early.

Through the vague feelings of disappointment, Matthew managed to say, "Well, I think that's about all the time we have. Have a nice-"

But he was cut off. "Wait."

Matthew fell silent, waited, and was shocked to see Gilbert pull the very same journal he was given that day from beneath one of the cushions. How strange… Matthew had not even noticed that he brought it in. Gilbert continued to speak before Matthew could make sense of any of it. "I wrote some…stuff. Like you told us."

For the first time that day, Matthew felt a spark of hope. By God, someone in this place had _listened _to him. "That's wonderful." Matthew really expected that to be the end of it. He did not expect Gilbert to stand up so quickly the sofa might as well have been burning him, harden his gaze, and toss the journal on Matthew's desk like he was discarding a piece of trash. Matthew could only stare at it. "Gilbert, you do know that you don't have to-"

Gilbert did not appear to be listening to him. Matthew supposed he couldn't win them all. "I know. I just…" Gilbert shrugged, flung the door open and finished as he was walking out. "…Wanted you to read it." The door slammed, and Matthew was left stunned.

The journal mocked Matthew from the desktop like an active grenade. In all his years of insisting upon this exercise, he had only been asked to read a patient's journal twice- the first time being a female patient's very detailed account of exactly what she would do to him, the second being a screenplay the patient wanted Matthew to proof read. Both had been unpleasant; both managed to avoid the purpose of journal writing entirely. This time, Matthew had a feeling it would be different.

Somehow that thought only made it harder to pick up the journal. The only thing Matthew expected was the unexpected, just like that first day he heard Gilbert shouting and every time their paths crossed since then. Only God knew why Gilbert seemed to trust him, to take him seriously, when nearly no one else did. Matthew grasped for the journal before he could think about it any further. The first thing he noticed was the crumpled pages, the bent cover, the rips and the tears. Matthew ignored the unexplained scars, opened the cover with a blank mind and steady hands, and held his breath until he stumbled across the page covered in shaking, thick-lined words.

_I'm tired. I am so, so goddamn tired, all day, everyday, all the time. It really is a bitch having to supply energy for two separate people when you don't even have the stamina for one. Being in this place makes it worse. People stare at me, mock me, because they all know about me. They all witnessed him, and because of that, I'm easy. I'm easy to stare at. I'm easy to yell at. I'm easy to despise. But I don't care. Really, who gives a shit? He doesn't. My brother doesn't. Francis and Antonio might, but they aren't here, are they? No one here gives a shit about me, but that's okay, because I'm awesome. I like me and that's enough._

_Actually, I might take that back. One person here looks at me like a human instead of a circus freak. He speaks to me like a person and at least tries to understand, and if you ask me, that's pretty awesome. He's the reason I haven't catapulted myself out the nearest window. If I actually work up the balls to do what I'm planning to do, that would be you, Mattie. Sup. _

Matthew looked up from the page with a jolt. Gilbert had planned this from the beginning, and Matthew was unsure how to feel about that: happy because he was trusted, or nervous because the line between patient and doctor was already beginning to blur. The last thing he needed in the midst of this mutiny was to be seen as even less of a professional- God knows hardly anyone here saw him as one, despite the many certificates on his wall. Matthew read on with reluctance.

_While I'm at it, I might as well say sorry about this morning. Seeing me passed out on the couch probably isn't the best way to start your day. It definitely wasn't the best start for me, either. I wish I knew what he did or at least how I got there. But I don't. I never do. After I transition back to my awesome self I'm always left wondering where this or that bruise came from, trying to guess who hates me now. A lot of guessing is involved. It really puts a guy on edge. Oh well. Nothing I can do, I guess. _

_I'm not all that good at this writing shit, so I guess I'll sign off here. Thanks for being cool, Matthew. Might as well say sorry for Fritz in advance. With any luck you won't hate me by the end of this…you probably hate him already. At least you should. But you're probably too goddamn nice for that. _

_-Gil. _

Matthew must have read the words a dozen times. The tattered pages seemed to crumble even further, and it took far too long to realize it was due to how tight he had made his hold. The entry was all flippant humor and unapologetic indifference, but there was something behind it, something Matthew could not place, that made everything else feel like nothing but a cover. Then Matthew thought back to Gilbert's grin, the nonchalance in this speech, and the faint, fleeting storm in his eyes. Then he realized Gilbert was engrained in these pages.

Now all Matthew had to do was read between the lines.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

This was not the first time this had happened.

Just like the times this had happened in the past, Gilbert could not remember what triggered it. He barely remembered where he was. Hell, if he was prompted for his name, he was only partially sure he would be able to answer. His eyes were open, there was a hard bed swaying dangerously beneath him, but other than that, nothing felt real or sane. Gilbert's entire mind was lost in a thick, nonsensical haze, clouded with sleep and panic and something he could not place. And this was not the first time.

Gilbert wiped his sweaty, unsteady hands against his thighs, though he did not feel them. All he felt was his heartbeat in his chest, the rushing in his ears, and the heavy, imaginary grip around his neck. He wanted to run; he could not move. His throat hurt. His head hurt. Everything hurt but everything was numb, ice-cold, burning, turned upside down and inside out. Gilbert spoke only to remind himself this was real. And this was not the first time. "Oh _Gott, _oh _scheiße…_" Gilbert trailed off in a jumbled mess of German, each word growing steadily louder than the last. Hearing his own voice kept him with the last bits of reality he had.

After some time, a voice cut through the unreal silence. "Will you shut up?" The words were mumbled, grumpy, the accent British. Arthur. Arthur, who was real; Arthur, who would not hurt him. Gilbert managed to fall silence again. "Bloody hell…" The words dissolved into nothing, lost in the dark room, with Ivan sleeping motionlessly on the other side of it. This was reality, and it was not a dangerous one.

But Gilbert was still shaking. There were still tears in his eyes, still a race in his pulse, still a piercing arrow of fear stuck directly in his core. And no one was there to do anything about it. Despite the two men sleeping within a few feet of him, Gilbert knew he was completely, devastatingly, terrifyingly alone. And this was not the first time.

Gilbert was used to a lot of things- waking up in strange places, having no recollection of the past hour or day or week, injuries ranging from inexplicable to far too easy to place. But if there was one thing he would never, ever get used to, it was the waking up with a shriek, the late night panic, the crushing loneliness… the nightmares. Or maybe they were called night terrors… Gilbert did not even know. God, it did not even matter. Whatever they were, he was certain he would never get used to them. Especially not in a place like this.

This was ridiculous. Gilbert tried to convince himself of that as he pulled his legs against his chest, tried to tell himself this was childish and petty, tried to remind himself he was not in any real danger…but it was not working. Of course it was not working, it never did, or else he would not be awake in this pitch black, ice-cold room, trembling with the aftershocks of a dream he did not even remember. If Gilbert knew how to calm himself down, he would probably be at home.

As reality trickled back and the bed began to steady, Gilbert sighed, stared at the wall and thought back to when he was the one in control. He did not even try to stop his traitorous mind from straying to the one place he usually avoided like the damn plague. Maybe it was out of exhaustion, maybe it was simply because things were simpler then, but all Gilbert could think about in the aftermath of panic was Ludwig. Ludwig when he was not Dr. Beilschmidt, Ludwig when he was small and naïve and helpless. Ludwig when he had to crane his neck to look up at Gilbert, who was, back then, something akin to a superhero who could single-handedly drive the monsters away. He remembered playing his flute, playing until the fear disappeared from his brother's eyes and the both of them were asleep again, safe and sound.

Gilbert wondered when he lost the ability to soothe away Ludwig's nightmares, when he was the one that suddenly had to shoulder all of them, no matter how real or haunting or whether they remained in the confides of his dreams or not. He thought back to how Ludwig looked at him when he was a child- blue eyes wide and innocent, gleaming with admiration, sometimes tear-stricken after a nasty nightmare. Gilbert wondered when they had grown to be cold and disdainful.

Maybe it was around the time that _Gilbert _became the monster.

Gilbert almost laughed, because after all this time he could not even remember when that happened. It had to be somewhere between the time Ludwig got to be bigger than him, both in size and status, and the first time Fritz was introduced into the picture. Or maybe their relationship had always been screwed. Just like everything else, Gilbert truly could not even tell anymore. The one thing he knew for sure, perhaps more certainly than he knew anything else, was that he needed someone right about now. He needed someone just like Ludwig had needed him all those years ago. It was plain embarrassing to admit, even to himself, but Gilbert was far too worn out to care. His heart was still a little too fast, his breath a little too hard. He was still… scared.

But who would do that for him now? Gilbert wasn't particularly keen on the idea of Antonio or Francis seeing him a shaking, sweating mess, especially after all they had already had the displeasure of witnessing. Ludwig was definitely out, for obvious reasons. For a moment Gilbert thought about Opa Aldrich… his strong, indestructible grandfather, with long white hair and firm eyes and gentle hands, the man who drove away their fears when even Gilbert couldn't. But Aldrich and Ludwig were always too similar. That was the last thing he needed, even in this hypothetical situation. Maybe Gilbert really was alone, and there truly was not a single person he wanted to see right now even if he did have the chance. The thought was a little depressing.

But as soon as that thought passed, one even more intrusive replaced it: There _was _one person Gilbert would like to see right now. One he just barely met, one who smiled at him no matter what position he found him in, one who fell into Gilbert's life in a flurry of soft-spoken words of encouragement and flannel. He was the one Gilbert wanted to see, the one he wanted to hold his hand and dry his ridiculous tears and tell him things would be all right when they wouldn't.

That was when Gilbert got a little dizzy. Because he should not be thinking this way. Because it was stupid, and unrealistic, and exactly what he needed but absolutely could not have. Because the room was spinning again… his vision was dusted in white…because he was… Matthew was…

_Click. _

A fucking queen, that's what Matthew was.

The King quickly took in his surroundings, leapt from the bed, and stretched his arms over his head. It was times like these when he had no choice but to take over- when Gilbert's train of thought got too absurd, too sentimental and too downright _gross _for the both of them. And ever since the fragile little Canadian waltzed into the picture, that had been happening far too often. If they were going to share a body, The King sure as hell wasn't going to let Gilbert turn into even more of a pansy… even though that would be pretty hard to do. The idea actually got him laughing.

Arthur started some grumbly protest to The King's uninhibited laughter, but he kicked the side of the bed to shut him up. The Russian was lucky he stayed silent. With both of his roommates sleeping and Matthew nowhere to be found, all of his sources of entertainment were gone. The King was not about to sleep, either. _He_ had just woken up. That being said, the silent, dark, motionless room got to be very boring very quickly. There was nothing left to do but walk out and look for something interesting to do.

The hallways were dead silent this time of night. There were not even any orderlies around- they must all have been slacking off. He chuckled to himself. If they didn't want him messing with things at night, the least they could do is make it a little less easy. Marveling in the simplicity of it all, The King wandered the darkened, dead halls for what felt like an eternity and a half. Really it was only about five minutes, but by the end of the fifth he was positive this place could not get anymore boring if someone actually tried to make that so.

When he was on the crux of giving up and simply calling it a night, The King finally spotted something that managed to hold his interest. It was not exciting or even out of the ordinary, but what lay behind it just might be. Sitting in between a series of identical doors, indistinguishable from the others if it wasn't for the plaque that read _Williams _in neat script, was Matthew's office door. The King grinned.

For nearly five more minutes after, he searched. He wandered the same common rooms and hallways he had just walked through, hands blindly skimming the tables, digging through open drawers, patting at the carpet, until he found something that would accomplish his mission- a paperclip. Again, it was not exciting or unusual, but it was the key he needed to unlock some sort of entertainment. With a smirk on his face and a familiar thrum of adrenaline thrumming through his blood, The King made his way back the little princess's office.

A bend in the metal, some gentle maneuvering, a keen ear…that was all it took. Ten seconds and he had the door open. The King bit back another burst of laughter at how ridiculously _easy _this was, looked to either side, and then simply waltzed into the office like he owned the place. He just about did, now that he thought about it.

The door closed with a soft click. The King reached out to flip the switch and the lights shuttered on his a dull hiss, bathing the formerly pitch-black room in artificial yellow light. He winced against the brightness and looked around- at the pristine desk, the worn leather sofa, and finally the quote printed in cursive and hung crooked on a cheap frame. _Happiness depends upon ourselves… _how unbearably shallow. If that was their idea of encouraging, he could see why people rot in this place for years.

It did not take long for The King to grow restless again, and because of that, it did not take him long to make his way to the file cabinet resting in the corner. If anything in here would hold anything of interest, that would be it. He withdrew the bent paperclip from his pocket, jiggled it in the lock, and frowned when it did not pop open as easily as the door. Maybe something in this building was put together with competence. But he was a King, and Kings were not defeated by something as trivial as a tricky lock.

Another five minutes, plenty of careful maneuvering and a near-scream of frustration later, the drawer marked _A-G _popped open with a satisfying click. The King grinned to himself, yanked it open, and rifled through the identical manila folders until he found a familiar, sickening name: _Beilschmidt. _Finally, it was time to see what was going on when he was away.

Like a businessman with the morning paper, The King plopped down on what was supposedly Matthew's chair as if it were a throne. Sitting in what was supposed to be Matthew's spot after breaking into what was supposed to be his space felt almost authoritative. As if it were a victory. But he had gotten away with much worse, and this was nothing compared to theft, back-alley deals or even a bar fight on the tamest of Friday nights. With any luck, he could get back to that soon.

The King flipped the folder open and shifted through the contents as the florescent light flickered above him. The handwriting on the loose leaf was almost unnaturally neat, the tails of the g's and y's looping, every letter identical in size… perfectly befitting of a princess. Figures. He shuffled through the papers at random, barely skimming the words, until a title caught his eye: _Group Therapy Progress Note. _

_Client Attendance: Gilbert, Ivan, Arthur, and Mathias._

_Group Activity: Patients were encouraged to discuss their progress and feelings about inpatient treatment, and new patients were asked about how they are adjusting to the facilities. _

_Overall Impression: Unsuccessful day, more so than usual. Clients were completely unwilling to speak, seemed rather irritated and exhausted, and seem at odds with one another. Much encouragement was needed for even the slightest bit of participation. _

_Client Progress Note: Gilbert was among the quietest of attendees. He seemed distracted and far off, unwilling to participate in the discussion. Strangely enough, he seemed more interested in me than the group activities. _

The King stopped reading. It sounded as if Gilbert had been pouting, which was hardly surprising, but he could not help but wonder what 'more interested in Matthew' meant…though he was sure he already had an idea. Amused curiosity rising in his chest and another grin spreading across his face, he slipped to the next page of too-neat, too-perfect handwriting.

_Patient reported to being diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder approximately five years ago. He claims to have only one alter, referred to as "The King" or "Fritz," who often demonstrates destructive, reckless behavior. Said behavior was displayed upon admittance, when this alter was said to be out. _

Damn straight. The King felt a zing of pride. His entrance had certainly been memorable, and after just a few days, he already had a reputation. Really, he had not expected any less.

_Patient seems uncomfortable and unwilling to discuss his family dynamics. _

The King paused, read the last sentence again, and then laughed. Imagining this princess trying to get Gilbert to talk about his 'family dynamics' was amusing at best, considering Gilbert wouldn't speak Ludwig's name if you paid him. If anything, Gilbert would likely deny having a brother at all. For a moment he felt something close to sympathy. Matthew certainly had his work cut out for him.

_Gilbert seems to use flippancy and attempts at humor to mask his true feelings on certain subjects. He responded to almost every question with a joke of some sort, though he grew increasingly visibly uncomfortable throughout the duration of the session. At one point, he began scratching his arms nearly to the point of drawing blood. By what I can see, this is a continuous problem for him that must be addressed._

The King adverted his eyes from the page, pulled up his sleeve and grimaced. The raw, red lines Gilbert had carved into his arm had scabbed over on top of old scars. It was sickening to look at. Out of all the annoying habits Gilbert had that affected the both of them, this was by far the worst. It was disgusting. It was ridiculous. And it certainly wasn't doing anything to keep The King away, like he knew Gilbert wanted it too. If anything it gave him more of a reason to take over as often as he did. He pulled down his sleeve with a sharp tug and forced his eyes back on the words.

_Overall, it seems bringing Gilbert out of his shell enough for him to open up will be a sizable yet manageable challenge. It may be frustrating, but he's a sweet guy who needs nothing if not sympathy and support. _

Sweet? Well, that was a little weird. It hardly seemed like something a supposedly professional therapist would say about one of his patients. The King leafed through the remaining sheets of paper- maybe out of boredom, maybe searching for some sort of explanation- but found nothing but medical forms and legal documents. Then he rolled his eyes. Matthew was too 'sweet' for his own good; maybe he wrote this way about all his patients.

This was getting boring. The King was not entirely certain what he set off to find, but he was at least partially expecting something entertaining- or at least new. He knew all of this about Gilbert already. A split second before shutting the folder with a disappointed sigh, his eyes flitted to the top corner of the page and his eyebrows immediately shot up- even if it was only out of confusion. Doodled above the lines of notes was a perfect little heart.

A second passed, a year passed, and then The King could not help it- he laughed. He laughed the way he'd been holding back all night, heedless of who might discover him, until his eyes watered and his stomach began to ache. Matthew's word choice, Gilbert's apparent fascination… it all made clear, sudden sense, and it all spun back on this mindless drawing. Maybe he was overanalyzing it, but somehow, he just _knew. _The King knew exactly what was coming, and it was going to be hilarious. After all, it could end badly for the both of them.

And with that, he was satisfied. The King closed the folder with a smack, stood, and put it back exactly where he found it. He made sure to leave everything how it was when he walked in before he sauntered back into the hallway. There was no need to let anyone know about this. He could feel himself fading, feel his time running out, but that was okay.

He had exactly what he needed now.

.

When Gilbert awoke the next morning, he was tired.

It should not have been a surprise. Gilbert was nothing if not accustomed to exhaustion, but this time, it hit him like a dull ache and pounded directly against his skull. This time it did not even feel like the result of anything, such as anxiety or stress or an unexpected run-in with Ludwig. He was simply…tired, in the simplest of ways; similar to he morning after the all-nighters he used to pull in high school. He felt as if he had not actually slept at all. But that did not matter, because this place had a schedule to stick to and he was just another cog in their machine.

Though every joint in his body screamed in protest, Gilbert sat up and stretched. He tried to stand, but the sudden rush in his mind and the spots in his vision gave him no choice but to sit back down, cup his head and his hands, and groan a little too dramatically. Through the haze he tried to think what could have caused this, because fatigue was one thing but for the love of god he might as well have been _dying- _

Oh yeah. The nightmares. Gilbert remembered only pieces of his episode the night before, none of what triggered it, and could only guess what eventually ended it. But even if it was a blur, he was not too concerned about it. He had woken up in his bed, unrestrained, and no one was glaring at him- not yet, at least. At this point he would take anything he could get.

The morning was a drag. Gilbert just pulled himself through it, suffered through it, even as his joints ached and his eyes watered and blurred to the point that he could not even tell if Ivan was glowering at him or not. He ate though he did not taste, spoke to orderlies and nurses though he did not hear himself, and moved though he did not feel his feet hit the floor. Before Gilbert fully woke, it was already the afternoon. It was not until after lunch when he was walking down the hallway as if it was filled with wet sand that he was finally broken from this trance.

"Good afternoon, Gil."

Gilbert felt a jolt in his chest, and suddenly he was wide-awake. "Matthew." He cleared his throat, cleared his mind, and this time he was at least able to remember the time of day. "Afternoon, man." …But of course he could not remember to be formal.

Matthew smiled anyway, and Gilbert decided it was a minor offense. "I haven't seen you at all today. How are you doing?"

Gilbert fought the nearly overwhelming urge to say _'great, now!' _and said, "Pretty tired, but I'll live." He shrugged and leaned against the wall. "What've you been up to all this time? Playing hooky?"

"Oh, no! I…"

"Kidding, kidding." Gilbert lifted a hand and used to other to cover his mouth, suppressing a burst of laughter. He would bet his bottom dollar that Matthew had never missed a day or school or work in his life. He was too good-natured, too responsible for that.

Matthew's wide eyes softened. "Of course." He looked away from Gilbert and down at his sleeve, fingers messing with the button on his red flannel cuffs, his slight smile resurfacing. "I was just holed up in my office all day, paperwork and such. Nothing exciting." As he finished, his face pinched and his fidgeting ceased. "You know, the strangest thing happened. When I walked in today both my door and my file cabinet were unlocked."

"Huh." Gilbert shrugged, and then smirked. "Hey, who knows? Maybe someone broke in."

Matthew actually giggled at that, and Gilbert instantly felt almost embarrassingly proud of his lame joke- if it could even be considered as such. "Well, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing to ever happen around here."

Gilbert wondered what _would _be considered the weirdest thing to ever happen… actually, he probably didn't want to know. He quickly changed the subject. "So, what's in store for us today? Are we going to delve into our secretly horrible childhoods? Role-play as our parents?"

Matthew quirked an eyebrow. "I believe you've been watching too many lifetime movies." He walked towards Gilbert, his blonde curls bouncing gently above his shoulders. "We're actually going to try art therapy today. It'll be starting soon, if you would like to walk there with me."

Gilbert groaned, but he did not hesitate to match Matthew's pace. "Art therapy? Geez, man, it's like elementary school all over again." Really, this place kind of was like elementary school- the ridiculous activities, the patronizing looks, the complete and utter lack of independence… all that was missing was a class pet. Then again, Arthur _was _always babbling about a unicorn. Gilbert rolled his eyes against the thought and shoved his hands in his pockets. "At least tell me we aren't using finger paints."

Matthew let out a short, nearly inaudible laugh that was closer to a sigh. "Only if you want to."

"Oh, I'm sure I could whip out a masterpiece with just these." Gilbert wiggled his fingers in air until his sleeve began to slip down his arm. He quickly pulled it back up, got so distracted he stumbled over his own feet, just barely saved himself from falling, and flushed. After a second that felt like an ice age, he managed to stagger back into step.

Matthew paused mid-stride. He shot Gilbert a quizzical look, his lips twitching into a slight grin that contained something akin to sass. Gilbert cleared his throat and looked away, and just a second later, Matthew pressed the side of his hand to his mouth and laughed. It was not mocking or mean-spirited. If anything, Matthew sounded embarrassed for him. "Careful," he said, his voice jumping. Then he started walking again.

Gilbert paused before starting forward, amusement and comfort taking residence where perhaps embarrassment and reluctance belonged. There were a lot of things in his place he was sure he would never get used to, but there were a handful of exceptions- a few being that voice, that smile, and that laugh.

.

The room ended up looking like every art class Gilbert had seen throughout the years- granted he never made it a point to be in one- complete with a series of paintings varying in skill level hanging from the wall, the slew of paint containers sitting on every flat surface, and the single long table sitting in the middle of the room. If it wasn't for the quiet mumbling and handful of orderlies patrolling the room, he could almost pretend he was back in grade school. Nonetheless, there probably weren't this many expletives carved in the wood back then.

Unsure what to do with himself, Gilbert looked up from the blank sheet in from of him and surveyed his surroundings. Ivan was a few seats away, and if Gilbert craned his neck, he could vaguely make out what looked to be nearly a full page of strangely detailed sunflowers. He smiled as he drew them, not a trace of concern on his face. His serenity was almost unnerving.

Gilbert stared for far too long, because Ivan confused him, even disturbed him, and he could not figure out the Russian for the life of him. He could practically bring out The King through gaze alone, yet he still managed to look as innocent as a child. It was then that Ivan looked up and smiled. Their eyes locked, Gilbert's blood turned cold, and he immediately threw his gaze back to the paper sitting on the table. He was not glaring this time, but there were a million things behind that smile that Gilbert simply did not have the energy to consider.

If only to occupy his hands and his mind, Gilbert reached for the first thing he saw. It happened to be a paintbrush. Paint soon followed, and even though his mind was elsewhere and he had little faith in his artistic ability, he managed to fill the empty space with something he could easily draw from memory- birds. Yellow, delicate canaries, wings splayed out and black eyes searching the paper sky. Gilbert had always liked the idea of flight, of floating away on a gust of wind and never looking back.

Trepidation faded, and Gilbert concentrated on brushstroke after brushstroke, nothing else. A line of coin-sized bird soon stretched across the length of the page. Somewhere along the line, as Arthur mumbled to himself in the background, he realized he actually envied them. He envied how birds migrated, escaped, never stuck and always moving. Gilbert blinked against the idea, embarrassed with himself, with his own mind. How ridiculous. How pathetic, how downright _absurd- _

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, the touch as light as wind but as startling a bolt of lightning. "Wow, Gil, you never told me you were an artist."

There was no sarcasm in Matthew's voice, but Gilbert could not fight the instinct to haphazardly cover the painting with his hands. "I'm good at too many things. Sometimes I lose track." He tried to laugh at that, but it ended up sounding strangled.

The chair next to Gilbert happened to be empty, and Matthew pulled it out and sat down, crossing his legs and folding his hands on his knee. Gilbert would be lying if he said he wasn't at least a bit surprised. "You like birds?" Matthew leaned forward, eyes studying the page, and Gilbert felt heat surge across the back of his neck- perhaps out of unfamiliar self-consciousness, perhaps due to how little space was left between them.

"They're…pretty awesome, yeah." Gilbert cleared his throat. He suddenly felt a little childish, but he pushed past it and grinned. "Why, does that have some deep, unbelievably pretentious physiological meaning behind it?"

Matthew shrugged. "As far as I can tell, it means you like birds."

"That works too." Gilbert set the brush down in one dramatic, deliberate gesture. He wanted his undivided attention to be apparent. Still, he found himself struggling for words, something he had never had a problem with until very recently. If only to fill the silence, he stumbled over the first thing that came to mind. "So, do you… like birds, too?" Once Gilbert heard himself, it took him an incredible amount of effort to keep from smacking himself.

Matthew raised his eyebrows, but he had the decency not to laugh. Thankfully. "I have nothing against them. If I had to pick a favorite animal, though, it would have to be a bear."

"A bear," Gilbert repeated, incredulous. It hardly seemed fitting.

Matthew nodded and shrugged, looking almost apologetic. "You see them all the time in Canada. I don't know, I just always thought they were neat. Powerful. Not that I ever had the courage to get near one. The closest I got was the teddy bear Alfred gave me." He clamped his mouth shut after he said it, as if he had let a secret slip. Gilbert pretended not to notice he was blushing, pretended not to feel the troublesome jump in his chest. Matthew quickly changed the subject. "I don't think I could paint them as well as you paint birds, though."

Gilbert snorted. "Oh, come on. I would bet you're the artsy type."

Matthew unfolded his hands and flipped one in the air. "Not really, no. I was always more of a reader."

"Really? Oh, well… I am too, I guess." Gilbert let his voice dip near the end of the sentence. His bookcase back home was nearly overflowing, but he never dared mention it to anyone. He drummed his fingers against the table, unsure if he should continue, unsure how he even could. When Matthew only nodded wordlessly, Gilbert decided to give it a shot. "One of my favorites is _Into The Wild." _

Matthew's face lit up. "Oh, I _loved _that one." He uncrossed his legs, assuming more of a natural posture as he leaned back in the chair. "What do you like about it?"

A million explanations flooded Gilbert's mind but none felt safe enough to say. He liked that the main character, Chris, was just as reckless and torn-apart as he was. He liked that he, unlike Gilbert, had run off and found his place in the word, free the judgments and expectations placed on him. Chris McCandless was just like the birds Gilbert was crazy enough to be jealous of. "Oh, you know," he said finally, uselessly. "I thought the characters were pretty cool."

"Me too." Matthew smiled in that gentle, genuine way Gilbert had never seen on the face of any other therapist. He stared into his hands as he spoke. "A lot of people say Chris was a fool, but… I never did. Even if he didn't make it, I always thought his journey was beautiful."

"Same here, actually." Gilbert's shoulders loosened, his mind cleared, and the words flowed with more ease and less apprehension. "I mean, even if the bastard barely made it a few months in Alaska, at least he did it, you know? He didn't let anyone talk him out of it. You have to give him props for that."

"I do. I definitely do." Slowly, Matthew looked up from his hands and met Gilbert's gaze. "He left because he felt misunderstood and unheard. And, unlike a lot of us, he had to gall to go out and try to find something better."

Gilbert got the strong feeling they were no longer talking about the novel. He shifted in his seat, keeping his expression neutral to cover the whir in his mind. "Yeah, that was pretty awesome of him." He said it under his breath, because it was not useful or profound, because for whatever reason he wanted Matthew to lead this strange, out of the blue conversation in the middle of a hospital art room.

"I can't help but think, though… if Chris had just one person that truly understood him, maybe he wouldn't have needed to go to Alaska. Maybe he would still be around." Matthew's eyes flashed strangely at that. Gilbert froze, struggling to hear his hushed voice in this noisy room but clinging to each word like a shipwrecked man to land. After a pause just a beat too long to be natural, Matthew went on. "Everyone needs that."

"Yeah." Gilbert's heart was in his throat. He could no longer form coherent responses, could no longer think of Chris McCandless and his stupid bus, could no longer breathe. He could only think of Matthew; Matthew who liked to read, Matthew who loved bears despite being too cautious and sensible to approach one, Matthew who had a famous brother he thought overshadowed him. Matthew, the sweet, gentle canary to Gilbert's wild, ferocious bear. Matthew, who smiled when everyone else was scowling. Gilbert dropped his eyes to the mediocre painting on the table and spoke without saying anything. "Yeah, they do."

If Matthew had the good sense to stay away from dangerous wild animals, Gilbert had to wonder why he was anywhere near him… or how long it would take him to run away.

* * *

_Author's note: Yes, 'Into The Wild' is a real book, and Chris McCandless was a real person. I suggest you read it. I really liked it, personally!_

* * *

_To be continued..._


	6. Chapter 6

_1991_

_Germany_

_._

_Gilbert sat beside Ludwig on his tiny, child-sized bed, his brother's blonde hair shining against his chest as the moonlight filtered in through the window. The front of Gilbert's shirt was wet with tears, wrinkled where Ludwig clung to it. "It's okay, Luddy." It must have been the fifth time he had said the same thing. _

_The response was the same each time. "I'm scared." _

_"__I know." Gilbert stifled a yawn. He had been here for at least an hour, maybe longer, but he refused to let fatigue win out right now. Not when he was needed. "I've told you a million times, kid, what you see in those dumb nightmares isn't real." _

_Ludwig pulled his face away and looked up, blue eyes damp and shining. "How do you know?" _

_Gilbert lifted his chin triumphantly. "Ten-year-olds know a lot more than six-year-olds." _

_"__Do not." _

_"__Do too." Gilbert smirked and jostled Ludwig's hair. "Besides, even if those monsters were real, you better believe your awesome brother could wipe them out all by himself." He used his free hand to karate chop the air. "They're no match for me, Luddy!" _

_Finally, after what felt like an eternity of soft crying and anxious whispers, Ludwig broke out in a smile and giggled. "Promise?" _

_Gilbert nodded, all confidence and sincerity. "Promise."_

_"__Okay." Ludwig's eyes were heavy-lidded now, without fear, finally befitting of a child who was far too innocent and kind for this panic. Gilbert felt both pride and relief. "I feel better, but… will you still play for me?" _

_Gilbert rolled his eyes and groaned as obnoxiously as he could, but his annoyance was obviously feigned. Ludwig giggled again and Gilbert patted him once on the back. "Sure, kid."_

_Ludwig watched with his eyes wide in anticipation as Gilbert leapt from the bed, walked to the side of the room and retrieved a smooth, black case from the floor beside his nightstand. As he sat back down, Ludwig leaned against Gilbert's shoulder, closed his eyes, and let out a soft sigh. Once the flute was to Gilbert's lips, his mind shut off. The song was a simple one, one of the first he ever learned, quiet enough not to wake Aldrich and slow enough to be soothing. _

_The notes floated in the air between them, monsters forgotten, time irrelevant, until Gilbert was certain Ludwig was asleep and he himself was too tired to continue. He did not even bother to make the journey of a few steps to his own bed. Gilbert fell asleep next to his brother, and right then, he was certain things would always be this simple. He would always be a King to Ludwig. _

_._

Ludwig really was trying to concentrate. He had paperwork to do, nurses to meet with, patients to treat… his to-do list was the length of his arm, and that was only for this morning. He barely had time to breathe, much less spend a second with any thought not related to work. He knew that, yet that was exactly what he was doing. Ludwig could not concentrate on the never-ending pile of paperwork in front of him when his traitorous eyes kept drifting, stealing too long, almost wistful glances down the very hall that would lead him to the psychiatric ward.

Before he had time to make another feeble attempt at getting something done, a familiar voice flooded his ears and erased any chance of doing that he had left. "Morning, Ludwig! The weather is amazing today, isn't it? The birds are singing and there are hardly any clouds and- wait, is something wrong? You look upset!"

Ludwig feigned an exasperated sigh, when in reality he felt as if the air had finally returned to his lungs. "Good morning to you too, Feliciano." He lifted his gaze just as Feliciano sat down, his scrubs wrinkled and a flurry of crumpled paper spilling from his bag as he dropped it on the floor. Usually his unapologetic disorganization would drive Ludwig to the brink of insanity. Today it was almost refreshing. "I'm not upset. Just a bit preoccupied, is all." It was half a lie, but some days there was no room for the truth.

Feliciano furrowed his brow, serious all of a sudden. Ludwig missed his smile immediately. "Are you sure? You've been staring at that piece of paper since I've walked in and it's upside-down."

"Oh." Ludwig spun the paper the right way and tried to read it, but nearly thirty seconds later he still had no idea what it said. He grit his teeth and tried not to scream in frustration. "Maybe more than a bit preoccupied," he said under his breath.

Feliciano tilted his head and smiled, much less manically this time. Ludwig focused his eyes on the stray curl that bounced from his mess of auburn hair as he spoke. "What's wrong, Ludwig? You know you can tell me anything, right? I told you why I was upset the other day when Lovino kept yelling at me."

Oh, Feliciano. Ludwig was quite certain he had never known anyone so innocent, so happy, so interminably optimistic… especially not a hospice nurse. Ludwig hadn't the gall to admit to himself that was likely what got him here every morning. In fact he barely had the nerve to continue speaking, but he pressed on regardless. "You know my brother, right, Feliciano? Gilbert?" He tried to say it casually, but the name singed his tongue.

"Yes, of course! It's been forever since I've seen him, though. How is he?"

Ludwig would not be surprised if Feliciano had forgotten. The Italian knew entirely too much about his personal life- it had gotten to be impossible to avoid as the years went on- but there were certain subjects he glossed over, certain subjects he avoided entirely. Still, he was sure he had mentioned his situation with his brother, even if it was only under his breath during a moment of weakness. "He could be better."

"Ooh." Feliciano's eyes suddenly darkened. His smile fell, his shoulders slumped, and Ludwig realized he should have given him more credit. He definitely remembered. "Oh, right, Gilbert has… right. Did something happen?"

Ludwig considered sugarcoating it or even distorting the truth all together, but realized he was far too tired to lie to a sympathetic ear. "I'm not sure exactly how all of this started, but…" He took a cleansing breath and allowed the dam to break. "Gilbert is currently in inpatient psychiatric treatment. He is right down the hall, actually." Ludwig lifted his shoulders in a shrug- perhaps in an attempt to dismiss it, perhaps to try and convince himself it was less of a disaster than he thought it was. He ultimately failed on both accounts.

Feliciano's mouth went agape in bewildered understanding. "Oh! Oh no, Ludwig! I'm so sorry! Have you spoken to him? Is he doing alright? Are you doing alright? What can I-"

Ludwig lifted a hand to stop him. Feliciano's over-the-top concern was touching, but if he let him go on for much longer there was a good chance he would never come off it. "I spoke to him the other day." Ludwig grimaced at the memory. "It didn't exactly go over well. I am sure he is fine, really. The staff in that department is excellent." The words felt like justifications, cover-ups. Ludwig was not even sure why he was trying to frame it this way.

Feliciano furrowed his brow. "How long has he been there?"

"I'm not completely certain." Ludwig could have told him down to the hour. "A couple weeks, I believe."

"A couple _weeks?_" Feliciano sounded almost personally offended. "Ludwig, that's like, forever! You have to try and see him again."

Ludwig closed his eyes painfully. He was caught between a rock and a hard place. He could not pretend he understood Gilbert, could not pretend he had a clue what to do with him. Suggesting that he go see him was akin to handing him a canister of gasoline and ordering that he throw it on a house fire. Ignoring him was just cowardly… not at all how his grandfather raised him to be. When he finally spoke, he could not be sure if it was out of exasperation or some kind of plead. "Feliciano…"

"Oh, Ludwig, I know it's hard." Ludwig opened his eyes when he felt Feliciano place his hand on his shoulder. That combined with his slightly patronizing tone should have irritated him to no end, but strangely enough he felt as if it was exactly what he needed somehow. "I know you are Gilbert don't always get along, Lovino and I don't always get along either, but he really needs you right now and I bet he really wants to see you."

Ludwig wished he could believe that. He mulled over his thoughts for only a second longer before the realization hit like an avalanche: This was ridiculous. There was no sense in sitting here, staring at paperwork he wasn't going to do, listening to Feliciano's pep talks and feeling sorry for himself. This was not Ludwig. Ludwig was the type of person that did what he needed to whether he wanted to or not, and he was not about to make this an exception.

"You're right, Feliciano." He slammed his hand on the table and stood. "I think I will head over there right now."

"Yay, Ludwig!" Feliciano practically squealed, jumped from his seat and embraced him. Ludwig returned it as hesitantly as he could. "Tell me how it goes, okay? Good luck, but I actually have to go now, bye!" Just like a tornado, Feliciano disappeared in a flurry identical to the one he entered in. Ludwig was left stunned, but this was a normal occurrence.

Ludwig's footsteps seemed to echo against the walls as he walked. He swallowed the lump in his throat, ignored the rush in his pulse, and told himself repeatedly that the butterflies in his stomach did not exist. For the love of god, Gilbert was his brother. There was no reason at all to be nervous. His quiets steps started to sound more like gunshots as he quickened his pace, full of purpose and no semblance of trepidation. He could do this. He _needed _to do this.

Ludwig repeated the words in his head like a mantra until he came to the sign that always felt like a smack to the face when he read it: _psychiatric. _

The mantra disappeared like water down a drain.

Ludwig froze, he stared, and he debated. Suddenly everything he was sure of a moment ago was ambiguous, every determined thought in his head sounded ridiculous. He commanded his legs to move but they refused. His eyes refused to move from the sign, his mind refused to make sense, his heart refused to stop pounding. When a soft voice cut in, his ears nearly refused to hear it.

"Oh, hello Dr. Beilschmidt."

"Dr. Williams," Ludwig regarded him with a curt nod and a straight face, as if there was not a single conflicting thought in his head.

Matthew drew his brows together, as if to wait for an explanation he was not receiving. A moment later he took it into his own hands. "Do you need something? I hardly ever see you in this department."

Ludwig wondered if Matthew even knew. After all, the only thing he shared with his brother was their surname. He and Gilbert did not look alike, did not act alike, did not speak alike. They did not talk to or even about each other. No… Matthew likely did not know. And in one cowardly, uncharacteristic moment that Ludwig would likely never live down, he decided there was no reason to change that now. "No, I was just passing through."

Ludwig walked away, and he did not look back.

.

Gilbert was not entirely sure why he decided to give Matthew his journal again. Come to think of it, he was not sure why he gave it to him the first time, either. Really, why was he even using it in the first place? He felt like a ten-year-old girl with a diary. Despite all of that, though, filling an entire page with words he could never say aloud and plunking it on Matthew's desk after their session felt completely natural- maybe a little nerve-wracking, but natural all the same.

The prompt that day hadn't been exciting. Something about writing a letter to your past self, or something. Gilbert wasn't sure. The only thing that had caught his attention was the word 'past,' and that brought him to the only positive thing about it he could remember- his flute.

So that was what he wrote about. About the day Aldrich brought that black case home, about the hours he spent practicing, about the few mediocre songs he wrote that felt like extensions of his soul when he played him, about the way his eyes shut and his mind finally fell quiet as the notes poured out. He left out the fact that he used to play for Ludwig… he did not even think about that. It was a lifetime ago, Ludwig was a completely different person, and Gilbert did not want to give Matthew that can of worms to open and deal with. Not yet, anyway.

Gilbert never thought that aspect of his life was a big deal. Matthew, however, sounded as if it was just about the most amazing thing he had ever heard. "Wow, I've never met anyone who can play the flute!" he said, Gilbert's journal lying closed in his lap. "That's quite impressive."

Gilbert felt an embarrassed flush creep across the back of his neck. He was not used to getting attention for this kind of thing- or positive attention in general, really- and he was not sure he even wanted it. "Yeah, well, you know," he mumbled. Maybe he should not have given Matthew his journal yesterday. Then again, the more he talked the faster he could get out of here and get back to his life, and he sure as hell was not about to say any of what he wrote aloud.

"I'm glad you allow me to read this, Gil. It really does help me figure out your treatment."

"Does it?" Gilbert was hardly surprised. It seemed like everything he did, everything he said, everything he _thought _somehow tied back to how sick he was, and there were endless ways to try and fix him. Somehow, he doubted any of them would work. He leaned back against the couch and looked Matthew in the eye, feigning interest. "And what did it tell you?"

"If you're thinking it means something abstract again, I'm afraid you're wrong." Matthew handed Gilbert's journal back to him with a half smile, and then shrugged. "All it means is that I would like to get you doing that again."

Gilbert felt an intense, sickening drop in his stomach and a tightening in his chest that made him thankful he was already sitting down. He could not remember the last time he had _touched, _much less played his flute. Too many memories lived in that stupid hunk of metal. "Uh, what?"

"It's a standard practice, really." Matthew spoke casually, as if there were not worlds of meanings behind this suggestion, as if Gilbert's stomach was not doing a rather interesting series of acrobatic moves. "It's usually beneficial for patients to have some sort of creative outlet for themselves, both during and after their stay. It's especially helpful if it was already a hobby of theirs beforehand."

Gilbert swallowed thickly and dug his nails into his palms. "Where the hell would I even get a flute?" He was well aware he sounded rude, far ruder than Matthew deserved, but he could not help it. It was either this or telling the full truth.

"We actually have a few instruments in storage a few doors down from the art room. You would be surprised how many tricks we have up our sleeves here, Gil."

Matthew was still smiling, his voice still light as air, and Gilbert immediately threw his gaze to the ugly rug beneath his feet and tried not to hear. "Oh. Well…" His nails pressed harder against his skin. "Do I have to?"

"Do you have to?" Matthew echoed. Gilbert was not looking at him anymore, but he could practically sense the dip in his shoulders and the crease in his brow. "Well, no, there wouldn't be any real sense in forcing you. But… can I ask why? You seemed so passionate about it in your journal."

Gilbert _was _passionate about it- note the past tense. He was passionate about it before he was too busy prying himself off the latest street corner he woke up on to practice, before he was he was just too sick and too tired to even think about picking the thing up, before every damn note tied back to Ludwig. He just did not have the time or mental stamina for passion. Dammit, he didn't _deserve _it.

Gilbert shrugged. "It's been awhile. I probably forgot how."

"I really doubt that," said Matthew. Gilbert raised an eyebrow, and Matthew visibly deflated. "Like I said, I'm not going to force you. But will you at least think about it? Please?"

Gilbert did not want to consider it. He did not even want to think about it, and if it had been anyone else who asked, he would have either laughed in their face or transitioned too quickly to react at all. But because it was Matthew…

A moment of eye contact, a second's consideration, a long, resigned sigh. "Yeah, I can do that," said Gilbert under his breath. Matthew just about beamed, and he supposed thinking about it wouldn't kill him.

Besides, how could he say no when Matthew said 'please' like that?

.

Gilbert had always hoped that at some point, the nightmares would stop really scaring him. Somewhere along the line they would just get to be irritating. When he awoke with a strangled breath later that night, the sheets twisted around his body like cobras and the bed next on the other side of the room inexplicably vacant, he knew he had gotten to that point- for tonight, at least. He still was not used to these dreams. But he was exhausted, mildly pissed off, and being scared just took too much energy. Besides, it would make sense that he was used to nightmares considering he now lived in one.

Usually, at a time like this, Gilbert would just try to sleep. Sleeping was one of the few safe things he was able to do. Because it was not scratching, it was not transitioning, and it kept the world away for a few hours. But today, Gilbert could not do that. He was too jittery, too on edge, too… awake, somehow. Maybe it was because he had actually gotten to be too tired to sleep, maybe it was because thoughts of Ludwig, Aldrich, Francis and Antonio were plaguing his mind, maybe it was because he was actively trying to pretend Matthew was not part of that group…or maybe it was because he heard something.

Gilbert had not considered that something beyond himself had woken him up, but the more he listened, the more he became aware of what sounded like a muffled voice coming from the hall. At first he thought this place was rubbing off on him and he was going crazy- or, rather, crazier- but he quickly realized that was not the case. If he was hearing voices in his head like Arthur, they probably would not be in a language he didn't know. Curiosity quickly replacing fatigue, he leapt out of bed and ventured into the hall.

Gilbert could not decide if the quiet, unmoving atmosphere the hospital was suddenly encased in was peaceful or disturbing. It felt as if he moved too suddenly, he would shatter it. He decided it was a bit of both- peaceful because no one was glaring at him, disturbing because his footsteps where echoing against the walls and it was too dark and goddammit where was that voice coming from? Cold sweat beaded on the back of his neck as he drew closer to it.

With footsteps almost too soft to make noise, Gilbert followed the voice and rounded the corner. There really wasn't a reason to be nervous. In spite of himself, his throat was closed, his heart felt as if it was being squeezed, his hands were sweating… but it ended up being for nothing. Gilbert lifted his eyes, blinked to make sure he was seeing properly, and let out the breath he did not realize he was holding when he realized this voice did not belong to a monster… though he was close.

Ivan had his head bowed, one hand on the wall and one clutching the receiver of the community phone. His words were a frantic stream of what Gilbert assumed to be Russian. Even if he did not speak a word of the language, something about Ivan's tone, his posture, the paleness in his face and the quiver in his voice told him this was far from a normal conversation. Why it was taking place now, Gilbert had no idea. It must have been urgent- or apocalyptic, most likely- whatever it was. The sudden change was unnerving.

Ivan managed one last sentence- this one in English, suddenly strangely calm- and hung up the phone with a forceful slam. Gilbert watched in complete silence as Ivan sunk to the floor, not smiling for the first time since they met, both ends of his scarf balled in his hands which were pulling, pulling like breath was the enemy, like the person who antagonized Gilbert at every turn was for some reason gone and long forgotten.

For a long moment Gilbert did not move. He was caught between amusement and confusion, bewilderment and agitation, unnerve and something sickeningly close to sympathy. Gilbert had never seen Ivan this way. He was usually all smiles and underhanded comments, the storm behind his eyes never quite reaching the surface, and now, without warning, he was a shaking mess. Gilbert wished he could take joy in seeing it. He couldn't.

Gilbert had already walked the length of the hall before he realized he had moved. There was no telling why he was doing this, but his conscience was refusing to be quiet, and he found himself standing over the very bane of his existence in this place and speaking as if they were friends. "Can't say I speak any Russian, but that didn't sound awesome."

Ivan did not look at him. He only turned away, obstructing what could very well be tears spiking his eyelashes. "What do you want?" Ivan spat the words. His voice sounded lower, deeper; his childlike cheeriness a distant memory. Gilbert felt a shudder at the idea all of that could have been artificial from the beginning.

"Hey, I come in peace." Gilbert leaned against the wall and shrugged, even though every part of him was screaming to run. He told part of the truth. "Couldn't sleep, so I'm here. That's all there is to it."

Ivan drew his knees into his chest, as if he was attempting to condense his tower-like form and fade directly into the white wall behind him. Gilbert looked down the hall at a buzzing light, his head swimming, until the strange silence was broken. "Is it you, Gilbert, or is it-"

Gilbert spoke quickly to stifle his panic. "I haven't transitioned today." Dammit, why was this being brought up? More importantly, why was he having this conversation with Ivan? Gilbert ignored the questions in his head and changed the subject. "So what's up?"

Another pause. Finally, Ivan mumbled, "I thought you did not like me."

That was far from inaccurate. Yeah, Ivan got on his nerves more than anyone outside of his family ever had, but Gilbert was hardly interested in starting a fistfight with the guy. He was only trying to be civil. Could Ivan make this any more difficult if he tried? "I don't. That doesn't mean I'm going to kick you while you're down."

Gilbert was not sure what he said, but in that very second Ivan lost the bit of composure he was holding onto. Ivan's eyes widened and then flashed with terror so pure it managed to scare Gilbert. His gaze fixed on something far off; something beyond this hospital, something that made his breathing grow labored and rapid and his already pale face go deadly white. His eyes watered, then closed, and finally he just held his head in unsteady hands. It did not take Gilbert long to figure it out.

"Ivan?" Gilbert waited for a response that part of him knew he was not going to get. Something about this felt familiar, too familiar, but he brushed it off. "Okay, panic attack. Awesome."

Panic attacks, fortunately, were not on Gilbert's laundry list of issues. He only knew the term through Antonio- happy, caring Antonio, the man who was the personification of sunshine ninety-nine percent of the time. But where there's sunshine, there's rain. Antonio had… bad days. Days Gilbert was unlucky enough to witness but smart enough to know how to deal with. He never thought he would be bringing that experience here, especially to help _Ivan, _for Christ's sakes… but it would be cruel not to. Gilbert could not bring himself to revel in Ivan's pain.

Gilbert separated his personal feelings from the task at hand. "Stand up."

Ivan opened his eyes only briefly before squeezing them back shut. "What?"

Gilbert fought the urge to slam his head against the wall out of frustration alone. "Oh, for the love of…" For a moment he hesitated. Then he sighed, gave up on maintaining any semblance of sanity, and acted on instinct. Ivan was on his feet his once powerful yank of the arm, then, with one good shove, against the wall. Gilbert probably did it more violently than necessary, but it was hardly of any concern to him. "It helps to have a flat surface. Just put your hands on the goddamn wall." Surprisingly, Ivan did so.

As Ivan attempted to steady his breathing, Gilbert leaned against the wall, tried to forget he had just done that, and allowed his drowsy mind to wonder. He could have walked away. He probably should have. But the longer he stood there, the more one intrusive thought kept him rooted to the spot. This situation did seem familiar, because he had dealt with late night panic in the past. It was not as severe, nor did it take place in a psych ward hallway, but he had dealt with it.

Ludwig. Ludwig when he was young, scared and naïve. Gilbert was not able to leave then, either. It was a sickening comparison. It was almost sickening enough to take him back to his room, but all he could think about was what he used to do in this situation, how long it had been, the way Matthew said _please… _Gilbert pushed himself off the wall. "Hold on."

Ivan spoke with his gaze fixed on the wall, breathless. "Where are you going?"

He almost sounded like he wanted Gilbert to stay, but he pushed the thought from his mind. It was just weird to think about. "I'm getting something." And he had no idea how he would do that, where it was, or even _why _he felt the need to find it, but this night was strange enough already. He might as well continue the madness. To keep things at least somewhat normal, he looked away and raised his voice. "What I'm about to do isn't for you, alright? I'm doing it for me. You're just lucky enough to spectate."

When Ivan glared back, just like always, it was almost a relief. "Do what you want."

So, Gilbert did just that. With only a single vague comment from Matthew to go off of, he wandered down the dark, silent halls, past the art room, and started opening doors. If there was a single thought in his head throughout all of this, it was that this hospital had entirely too many of them. Some were locked, some weren't, some lead to bedrooms or offices or storage, some didn't appear to have a purpose at all. But one did. Just as Matthew had promised, one closet several doors down from the art room held a small collection of cheap, obviously rented instruments. One happened to be a flute.

Gilbert did not allow himself time to think about it. He wrapped his hand around the smooth, familiar metal, slammed the door, and walked back to the phone.

Ivan had not moved from his spot. He was sitting again, hugging his knees to his chest again, but this time he did not look angry or terrified. He looked… empty. Gilbert sat down across from him and spoke without thinking. "It used to calm my brother down." Ivan looked up briefly, one eyebrow raised, and Gilbert realized he had unintentionally vocalized that thought. He quickly covered it with a near shout. "But this is for me, not anyone else. Especially not you."

Whether it was out of exhaustion or plain lack of interest, Ivan simply nodded without saying a word. They made eye contact, then broke it, and Gilbert turned his attention to the flute. Soon he forgot Ivan was there at all.

At first it was difficult, like the first steps after weeks in a coma. Gilbert was unconfident in the positioning of his hands, the way his lips rested on the mouthpiece, how the notes sounded when they first emerged and nearly startled him. At first he thought too much. But Gilbert stuck with, and soon he was away from this hospital, away from his nightmares, and back in a warm, safe bedroom in Germany. By the times his eyes closed, he was not thinking at all.

Gilbert did not open his eyes for what felt like a year. He barely noticed Arthur's arrival, or Mathias's a few minutes later. If they said anything, he did not hear it. He did not know what he was playing, if it sounded right of if his technique was flawed, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was that he was _playing. _Maybe it was one song, maybe it was twenty, maybe it was nothing but a muck of noise. He didn't know. He did not even care.

About an ice age later, Gilbert played one last note that felt like an outpouring of his very heart, opened his eyes… and it was not until then that he realized they were bleary.

Gilbert took a cleansing breath and lowered the flute, blinking away the inexplicable tears in his eyes as he slowly, almost reluctantly returned to reality. He then stared at the scene in front of him. Ivan, Arthur, and Mathias appeared to be sleeping- Ivan with the back of his head against the wall and his eyes closed, Arthur doing the same about a foot away, and Mathias curled up on the floor. It was… strange to look at, to say the least. These men had been nothing but unpredictable and hysterical since the moment Gilbert met them and suddenly they were as calm as tired preschoolers. The strangest part was, to an onlooker, it would appear that the four of them got along.

As suddenly as the moment began, it ended. Mere seconds after Gilbert stopped playing and the silence fell; Ivan, Arthur, and Mathias opened their eyes nearly at the same time, pried themselves from their spots, rose shakily to their feet and walked away without saying a word. Gilbert knew they would not speak of this in the morning.

Or ever, for that matter.

Then Gilbert was left alone, and for a moment he considered doing the same. But even now, he did not feel like sleeping or even going back to his room. There was only one place that could calm his heavy heart.

.

When Gilbert made the decision to walk past Matthew's office, it was more symbolic than anything, as pretentious as that sounded. Maybe if he was near the one place in this building he felt calm, maybe he could feel that way again. It was what he needed after this strange, dreamlike night that seemed to have no end. He was not sure what he expected to happen. But he did not expect to see a harsh ray of yellow light seeping under the doorway and into the hall, did not except to hear a quiet sigh from the other side, did not expect the near-painful jump in his chest.

He really did not expect him to be there.

Gilbert could not mask his shock. He could not mask the strange feeling in his gut that was almost excitement, either, so he made his hand into a fist and tapped the door. Might as well. It was not as if this night could get any more bizarre. "Matthew?" Gilbert cursed himself when his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and attempted to lower his voice a full octave. "Uh, you in there, man?"

The response was quiet, surprised. "Gilbert?" The word was followed by the sound of a chair being pushed back, a series of footsteps and the turning of the doorknob. Gilbert took an instinctive step back as it opened. His heart skipped far too hard of a beat for his liking when Matthew poked his head out, wrapped his hands around the edge of the door and looked up. Matthew did not appear to have the energy to even sound surprised. "What are you doing up?"

"I should be asking you the same thing." Gilbert saw that dark circles rimmed his eyes, that his hands were shaking, and suddenly his faint nervousness was replaced with sympathy. "Why are you still here?"

Matthew shrugged. "I had a few things to do."

Somehow, Gilbert got the idea 'a few' was a bit of an understatement. "God, what time is it anyway?"

Matthew blinked. He looked back into his office, surveyed the wall, and then looked back to Gilbert. "Around midnight, I believe."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Shit, man, do you hate yourself or something?"

When Matthew smiled, it was slight, exhausted, but it still managed to look genuine. Never anything but genuine. "No. I just love my patients."

The words hit too hard; Gilbert's heart pounded far too quickly. He saw now, more than ever, how hard Matthew worked for all of them… for him. The thought felt like fire against his skin. "That must be hard." The words felt useless, empty. They probably were. There were too many thoughts in Gilbert's head, too many to manage, too many to convert any of them into words. He wondered why in the hell he had even come by here to begin with. "Well, sorry for bothering you. I guess I'll be on my way."

He almost managed to take a step before Matthew spoke, effectively rendering his legs useless. "You aren't bothering me." The door creaked further open. "You know, Gil, I think I'm tired of working. Do you want to come in?"

Gilbert could think of nothing he wanted to do more. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

It felt strange, being in Matthew's office without rhyme or reason. Gilbert almost expected Matthew to sit at his desk chair, cross his legs, smile placidly and start asking him questions. It should not have come as a shock when he simply sat heavily on the couch and sighed, but it did. Gilbert almost managed to shock himself when he did the same.

"So," said Matthew after a moment of silence. "What are you doing up so late, Gil? Couldn't sleep?"

That was one way to put it. "Yeah, just one of those nights." Gilbert chose to omit his dreams, his pacing, his run-in with Ivan, and of course his ridiculous impromptu concert. Why had he done that again? Oh well. At least it had gotten the four of them to calm down for once. Really, it was probably the first time they had all been in the same room for five minutes without it ending in someone being verbally, emotionally, or even physically assaulted. The thought passed, and Gilbert quickly changed the subject. "What about you? I mean, Christ, how much work do these slave drivers give you?"

"Honestly, not enough." Matthew glanced towards his desk, which was littered with paper and empty mugs of coffee. He let out a short laugh that almost seemed self-critical. "I do this to myself. I've gotten so far behind on planning that I really have no choice."

Gilbert did not know what to say. Matthew obviously worked himself like a dog, and even still, he sounded so damn self-deprecating. As if it was not enough. As if he was not the backbone holding this train wreck of a hospital together. "Give yourself more credit, man."

Matthew looked up and blinked, his violet eyes dull and glassy against the bloodshot whites and dark circles beneath them. "Pardon?"

This was getting to be too much. Matthew was far too kind, too genuine to treat himself this way. "Look at yourself, Matt. You're killing yourself." Gilbert motioned, perhaps insensitively, to Matthew's disheveled clothes. "I bet no one in this building works as hard as you do."

Matthew parted his lips immediately, likely hell-bent on denying that up and down. Maybe it was only out of exhaustion, but Gilbert would have liked to believe he had some part in Matthew smiling gently and saying, "Well, thank you."

"Alright, then." Gilbert was surprised at how relieved he felt. "So, what have you been working on? Must be one hell of a problem if you have to stay here all night to fix it."

"It's more of an organizational issue, actually. Phone numbers, transportation issues, figuring out everyone's schedule…" Matthew laughed dryly. "I swear, by the time family therapy is over, _I'm _going to need therapy."

Something about that sentence hit Gilbert's ear wrong. "Family therapy," he repeated, as if to convince himself of it. His throat felt suddenly dry. "What do you mean?" he asked if it the term was foreign. He knew what it meant, knew what it implied, but at the same time he did not want to.

Matthew did not seem to sense his tension. "You know, family therapy. We ask the loved ones of our patients to come in and have a session with us. Parents, spouses, siblings…" Maybe he trailed off, maybe he continued. Gilbert was deaf to all but that last word.

"Oh," he mumbled quietly, uselessly. "Sounds fun." Suddenly Gilbert was far quieter than he was used to sounding. It made him uncomfortable, but it was nothing compared to how he felt when Matthew continued to speak.

"Speaking of which, Gil, I've been meaning to ask you something." Matthew paused for a moment, and Gilbert caught himself holding his breath. He released it only to have the air stolen again. "You mentioned having a brother, but you never told me his name. What is it? I kind of have to know, if I'm going to contact him."

Even through a sudden zing of panic, Gilbert could not help but feel incredulous. Matthew had not figured it out yet. He was not sure if that amused, shocked, or terrified him. "Matthew," he said slowly, unwilling to finish right away. "Who else do you know with the surname Beilschmidt?"

Matthew blinked. "Who else do I know with…" He trailed off, his eyes flew open, and he finished in a breathy gasp. "Dr. Beilschmidt. Ludwig."

Gilbert was not sure what to say then. All he knew was that this was over. Even if he was stuck in this ward, it was the first time in years that he had gotten to exist without any ties to his brother. Now, it was all crashing down around him. It should have panicked him, devastated him, but instead all it did was boil his blood in a furious surge of anger. He stayed silent, because he knew how dangerous anger could be.

Except Matthew did not even seem to notice it. "I wasn't expecting that. Huh." He shrugged, as if this was not a big deal, as if Gilbert was still breathing. "Well, at least it'll be easy to get him here, then." Matthew laughed at that. Usually, that laugh would send Gilbert's heart soaring. Now it felt like being stabbed.

"No, just… don't ask him to come, Matthew. I don't want him here." It took a Herculean effort not to shout the words. After all, it was not Matthew Gilbert wanted to shout at. It was himself, his brother, his situation, his life.

"What?" said Matthew, innocent as ever. "I thought you said your relationship was fine."

"That was because I didn't want to talk about it!" This time Gilbert did shout, and immediately hated himself for it. He tried to reel himself back and just barely succeeded, his next words coming out in more of strained whisper. "Do you have any idea how much it hurts…" Scratching. Gilbert's arm burned. He ignored the pain, as well as Matthew's worried expression. "To be a damn _psych patient _in the same hospital your _baby brother _is a _doctor_ in?"

"Being here is nothing to be ashamed of…"

"You know damn well it is."

Matthew began a stuttering response, faltered in it, and tried another. Neither ended up surfacing. Finally, he managed, "Gilbert, please don't hurt yourself." In that moment he did not even sound like a therapist. He sounded pleading, maybe even scared. Gilbert hated that he was responsible for that.

Slowly, Gilbert forced his hand away. He wondered what Ludwig would say about the marks. Maybe he would not say anything at all, and simply regard them with a flat, slightly exasperated expression and a roll of the eyes. That was what he had done last time. And Gilbert was ready to do anything to prevent it from happening again, even if that meant begging. "Please, Matthew, just don't ask him to come."

Matthew adverted his eyes. The silence was terrible. "I have to."

Gilbert nearly shouted again, but his anger dipped into something hopeless and resigned before he could stop it. Of course he had to. Gilbert could not hate Matthew for doing his job. Hell, he probably could not hate him even if he pulled out a knife and stabbed him. That was exactly what this felt like, after all. It was moments like this that Gilbert almost wished he would transition, if only to get away – but he didn't. The King always stayed away when he was actually needed.

"I'm sorry."

Gilbert pursed his lips. He didn't want Matthew to be sorry. He didn't want pity; he just wanted his cruel, confusing reality to stop. He wanted to be normal. And all this talk of Ludwig – his perfect, successful, _normal _brother – was more than enough to remind him he wasn't, and he never would be. "Don't be," he muttered eventually. Then Gilbert chuckled, because he was not sure what else he could do. "Hey, maybe he won't even show up. He hates me."

Matthew flinched. "Ludwig strikes me as a good man. I doubt he would hate you for this."

Gilbert could not help but laugh again at that. Ludwig struck everyone he met as a good man, because he was one. He was honest, reliable, kind… to everyone but Gilbert, at least, but he guessed he had earned that fate somehow. "Oh, believe me." Gilbert looked towards the door, and wondered momentarily why he had come here in the first place. "He does."

"Gil." Gilbert barely reacted to Matthew whispering his name, but his chest fluttered when he felt his hand on his wrist. Matthew ran his thumb over the skin, and the gentle touch soothed Gilbert's raw skin as it burned. It almost untied the painful knots twisting in his stomach. Almost. "I don't know much about you and Ludwig, but whatever happens, I'll help you through it. Okay?"

Oh, Matthew. Sweet, calm, perfect Matthew. Gilbert would give anything to believe him. But it seemed the innocent bird was already inching away from the ferocious bear, and if he wasn't flying away already, he certainly would when Ludwig showed up and Gilbert would be unable to hide just how bad he could get.

Even though it felt like jumping from the water to the fire, Gilbert pulled his arm away and stood. "Goodnight, Matthew."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	7. Chapter 7

They did not belong here.

Gilbert watched, his gaze as bitter as black coffee, as a surge of people flooded in and out of the ward as if they had any place there at all. They must all have had some sort of relation to the people in here, but Gilbert still felt intruded upon. No matter how much he hated this place, it was somewhere the insane could simply be insane, and now it was flooded with these… outsiders. Maybe Gilbert was simply bitter. Perhaps he was so far gone that he already felt detached from 'normal' people. Either way, family therapy was a right pain in the ass and it hadn't even started yet.

It was a light relief that none of the other patients looked any happier. Arthur was glancing about and tapping at the armrests of his chair. Mathias was staring blankly at the door, waiting. Ivan was the exception, as always. He sat on the other side of the room, nearly beaming, and watched the mutiny around him unfold like it was a Broadway show. Gilbert could not stand to look at Ivan for long, so he watched just as he was.

The first to arrive were three men that looked to be related, speaking to each other excitedly in variations of the same accent. Arthur froze. When the three men saw him, they practically charged in his direction, and Gilbert realized they must all be brothers. The scene they were making was chaotic, but they all seemed to get along well enough. Gilbert just looked away.

His gaze ended up falling to Mathias, who was still staring unblinkingly at the door like his life depended on it. He had been uncharacteristically quiet the past few days – Gilbert assumed he was in the middle of a depressive episode. He doubted he would ever move. But then the door creaked open, an expressionless blond man emerged from it, and Mathias sprung to life like someone had shocked him. He threw his arms around the man, kissed him… Gilbert quickly assumed this was the boyfriend he always talked about during group. He found himself looking away from that, too.

Gilbert had ran out of people to look at, so he simply stared at the door much like Mathias had moments ago. Soon his mind went blank. He had been worrying, pacing, scratching all day, and now there was nothing left to do now but lie down and accept his fate. Maybe he would not even come. Maybe Matthew had felt so bad for Gilbert that he did not even tell him. It was up in the air at this point, and Gilbert could not even be anxious anymore.

He kept that resolve for mere moments before, without warning, _he _walked in.

When Ludwig walked in the room, he kept his gaze high. He seemed intent on looking not at, but above everyone else. Gilbert would not be surprised if he felt too good to be here. He strode across the room with the same air of self-importance, his expression unreadable, and Gilbert sunk back in his chair. He dug his nails into his skin and twisted.

"Gilbert." Ludwig's voice was low, controlled. He acknowledged him with slight nod, still without looking down.

"Ludwig." Gilbert attempted to match his level of apathy even as his mind screamed. "You showed up."

Ludwig nodded again, curt and unaffected. "I did what was expected of me."

"Of course," muttered Gilbert. Sometimes, he was inclined to believe Ludwig was exactly like the dogs he loved so much. He responded to orders, a lot of times without question, if only for the sake of obedience. Some loved him; some feared him. If only Ludwig could love as unconditionally as a dog. "How'd you get out of work?"

"I have a bit of time before my next patient."

"Ah." Gilbert rolled his eyes – of course Ludwig would not go out of his way for this. "So, do you still think this is bullshit, or-"

"I believe we are both aware of my opinions on the matter."

All this time and the words still felt like smack to the face. Gilbert turned his head, already wishing Ludwig would leave, and searched for a distraction. His eyes fell to Ivan, who now looked just as miserable as the rest of them. He had two women speaking at him and he was no longer smiling. They were having a broken conversation in quick, panicky Russian, and Gilbert wished he could take some kind of sick joy in watching Ivan squirm for once. But that was not possible when he was equally as hot under the collar.

When Matthew showed up, Gilbert noticed immediately. Poor kid looked overwhelmed. He said something, his quiet voice cutting through the loud, senseless conversation between Ivan and whom Gilbert assumed were his sisters. His violet eyes screamed uncertainty. Gilbert watched the conversation unfold, watched Matthew attempt to hold this confused mess together, until he disappeared down the hall with Ivan and the two women. It was not until then that Gilbert remembered Ludwig was still in the room.

Finally, Ludwig sat down on the opposite end of the couch. His posture was stiff, as if he was sitting on a bed of spikes. "Dr. Williams takes care of you, correct?"

Something about the way that was phrased rubbed Gilbert the wrong way. He decided to ignore it, for his own sake. "He's my therapist, yeah."

Ludwig gave a noncommittal hum of acknowledgement. "Seems like a good fit. I have worked with Dr. Williams, and he's very good at his job. Patient."

_That _bugged Gilbert far more than it should. There was something about Ludwig talking about Matthew, the implication that he spent any time with him at all, that sent a shock of something dangerously close to jealousy rocketing through Gilbert's chest. He was not sure why, but he didn't want his brother anywhere near Matthew. This time he did not even bother with a response. He, Ludwig, and Matthew would be in the same room soon enough, and he would rather keep the peace while he could.

What felt like a year passed in terribly uncomfortable silence. Gilbert and Ludwig sat side by side, but even then, it felt like there was an ocean between them. There was nothing to talk about, for they were little more than strangers nowadays. Perhaps they were more like enemies. Gilbert wasn't sure and he didn't care to think about it.

When Matthew exited his office and made his way to the commons, looking dazed, tired, and a bit worse for wear, the relief was almost overpowering. Gilbert knew what was coming, but at least the terrible silence had ended. "Hey Matthew," he said, far too casually. Ludwig narrowed his eyes, likely confused by the informality, but said nothing about it.

Matthew managed a smile. "Afternoon, Gilbert." It took him a minute to turn towards Ludwig and acknowledge him, which filled Gilbert was an almost embarrassing amount of misplaced pride. "And good afternoon to you, Dr. Beilschmidt. Thank you for coming."

Ludwig stood up and extended his hand, all business even here. Matthew accepted the handshake. "'Ludwig' will do just fine today."

Gilbert could not help but mutter under his breath. "Lowering yourself today, huh?" Ludwig shot him a reprimanding look, and Gilbert quickly adverted his eyes and fell silent. Ludwig was younger than him, yet he had a way of making him feel like a child.

Matthew cleared his throat. If he was at all shocked by the relationship they had, he did a good job of hiding it. "Alright, then. Time is a bit of an issue today, so I suppose we should get started."

And suddenly, overwhelmingly, like a bomb going off, Gilbert felt nauseous and unsteady. There was a gun to his head and there was no telling who would pull the trigger. But there was nothing to do about it now, save for throw his hands up and face the firing squad. So that was exactly what he did. With a grin so forced it was painful, Gilbert said, "Alright, let's get this over with."

.

At first, there was a lot of staring involved.

Gilbert was sitting on the couch and picking at the hole in the fabric. Ludwig was sitting as far to the other side as he could. Matthew was sitting at his desk and smiling. Either he did not notice the heavy, suffocating tension, or he was choosing to ignore it. Considering his perceptiveness, Gilbert was heavily betting on the latter. The three of them exchanged a series of looks. For nearly two full minutes, that was all they did.

It got to be uncomfortable very quickly. Gilbert took to musing over ways to break the silence. _Lovely weather we're having, _he could say. It was raining, but whatever. _So, Luddy, how's that little Italian nurse of yours, _he considered asking, if only for some kind of comic relief. _Life in the nuthouse is great, thanks for asking. _Gilbert blinked against the bitter thought and ended up saying nothing.

Matthew finally did. "So… Ludwig. How do you feel about being here today?" he asked, each word suspiciously careful. Gilbert noticed he was glancing between him and his brother – likely trying to find the resemblance. There wasn't much of one, but it was there. More so than Gilbert liked to admit.

"I have no issues with it."

"And Gilbert, how do you-"

"It's fine."

And again the silence. Gilbert listened to the clock tick away in the distance, the quickening rain pounding against the window. He noticed Matthew had a quote on the wall – _Happiness depends upon ourselves – _and reread the words until they lost all meaning. He didn't get it to begin with, anyway.

"So," Ludwig uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. "Dr. Williams– Matthew. Tell me, what are your feelings on Gilbert's 'condition?'"

The sarcasm was unmistakable. Gilbert fought the equally overwhelming urges to scream, cry, or bolt from the room, and settled on drawing red lines in his arm with his nails. He tried to keep it from Ludwig and Matthew's sight, but at this point he didn't really care if they saw. It was the least of his worries.

Matthew spread a few papers on the desktop, and then folded his hands on the surface. "Well, just like everything else we treat here, dissociative identity disorder is a medical condition that requires intervention."

Ludwig hummed in acknowledgement. "I see." Uncross. Re-cross. The rain grew heavier. "And how about this… other personality, he claims to have?"

Gilbert bit the inside of his cheek, the pain mimicking that of his arm. It still wasn't enough of a distraction. "That's what DID _is, _Luddy-kins."

The first bolt of lightning hit right as Ludwig rolled his eyes, the flash highlighting the side of his face. "Gilbert, please don't start."

"Hold on a minute." The speed of Matthew's interjection was nearly as startling as the sudden crack of thunder that followed. Gilbert turned to him right as Ludwig did, and Matthew held Gilbert's gaze for a moment before continuing. "Ludwig, do you feel you have an understanding of this disorder? I realize it can be a bit hard to grasp."

"Of course I understand, I-"

"Are you serious?" Gilbert was hardly surprised to find himself laughing. Ludwig's absurd claim _was _kind of amusing – in a sad, frustrating sort of way. "You still call old Fritz by my name, Ludwig."

"Call old Fritz…" Ludwig shook his head sharply. "That's because he _is _you!"

Gilbert scoffed and rolled his eyes, his apathy soothing his ego as every other part of him burned. "Yeah, you understand _real _well."

"Okay, okay, let's try to settle down." Matthew had leaned so far against his desk that he was no longer sitting, and the springs on the chair creaked as he finally leant back. "I guess we have a starting point, then. Ludwig, can you tell me how you would define dissociative identity disorder?"

Gilbert let his eyes graze over that quote again. This, he could not wait to hear.

"Oh. Well, alright." Another bolt of lightening illuminated the sky outside the window, and when Ludwig cleared his throat Gilbert nearly thought it to be thunder. Perhaps it was his own pounding heart that he was hearing. "To my understanding, Gilbert created this… king, to use in situations he does not want to deal with. He reverts to this persona when things get to be overwhelming."

Ludwig recited the words with such certainty, even though they were completely, painfully inaccurate and oversimplified. After all this time and after countless attempts to explain, this was still what he thought. Gilbert felt a sudden urge to be sick that he suppressed with another laugh. "You're really, really wrong, but nice try."

"It's… a start." Matthew smiled, and for once Gilbert wished he wouldn't. "From what you're saying, Ludwig, I get the feeling you believe there's a good bit of choice involved in this. Would I be correct in thinking that?"

Even though Gilbert was not looking, he knew Ludwig nodded. He could feel in his chest, his veins, pulsing straight through his heart. He tried to focus on the quote as Ludwig spoke. God, that was such a stupid quote. "I would think there has to be."

Gilbert had expected that response yet it tore through him like a bullet anyway. Nobody, even someone crazy enough to be in this godforsaken place, could be so insane that they would create The King voluntarily. He didn't make things easier to deal with as Ludwig so claimed; he destroyed anything and everything and then allowed Gilbert to pick up the pieces. They were all standing in the middle of one of his messes right then, actually. "Wrong again," he mumbled, his voice suddenly raspy.

Ludwig turned to Gilbert and nearly responded, but Matthew was quicker. Thankfully. "I see. How does hearing that make you feel, Gil?"

It made Gilbert feel like he was in the middle of the ocean with weights tied to both his ankles, each kick only pulling him further beneath the surface, ice cold water stinging his eyes and pooling in his lungs until every bit of air was stolen from him and black overtook his vision… "It kind of sucks, I guess."

Matthew nodded. "And I'm guessing you wouldn't agree with what he described?"

Ludwig might as well have told him he had chosen his albinism. That he had chosen his bad eyesight, chosen his shortness, chosen to have a brother and grandfather that did not even attempt to understand anything about him, and chosen this sharp, unrelenting pain stabbing into his chest and blurring his vision… "Not really."

"Alright, then." Ludwig uncrossed his legs again, his time folding his arms over his chest. "Where did I go wrong?"

Gilbert could have answered that question so extensively that he would not have stopped for a year. Fortunately for all three of them, it was Matthew who ended up answering. "Well, first off, I can assure you Gilbert is not choosing his disorder. If anything, it chose him."

"Chose him," Ludwig echoed. "Could you explain?"

Matthew nodded. "Sure. Unfortunately, what actually causes dissociative identity disorder is still a bit of a mystery in the field. Some believe it's caused by genetics, but most physiatrists in the field believe it stems from trauma. So, my educated guess would be that Gilbert experienced some sort of traumatic situation that he may or may not remember, and that was when his condition first developed."

Gilbert tried to keep his hands occupied by picking at the tear in the sofa. This explanation was over his head, horribly uncomfortable to listen to, and he could find nothing to say. Right now, he could not even find it in him to make a joke. _That_ was just unsettling. So, Gilbert stayed silent and listened to the rain. It kept getting heavier.

Ludwig stalled for a moment, his brow furrowing as the information sunk in. "Trauma?" he said finally. Then, he let out a sound that was far, far too close to a laugh. "What kind of trauma could Gilbert possibly have experienced? It seems like a bit of a stretch."

Gilbert could not answer that either, but the fact that Ludwig had dismissed him so easily, that he had practically laughed in his face… "You know, Ludwig, maybe just being your brother is traumatic enough."

The corner of Ludwig's mouth twitched. If he was shocked, he was hiding it well. "What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

"You act like I do this for fun, or something." Gilbert tried not to raise his voice, tried not to glare, tried not to break. He took a breath and reminded himself he was fine. "Whenever I try to talk to you about… this, you just brush it off. Have you _ever _taken me seriously?"

"It's a bit difficult to take someone seriously when they run around calling themselves a king…"

"There you go again!"

Fog. Nails against his arm. Gilbert felt engulfed in television static, both too hot and too cold. He tried to ignore the sudden hiss in his ears.

Matthew's voice came in jumbled, and Gilbert clung to it. "Okay, there's no need to argue. Ludwig, what …" Roaring thunder tore through the air, lightning hit at nearly the same time, and Gilbert lost a piece of Matthew's words in the haze– "…when Gilbert's alter emerges?"

It felt like a dare. Gilbert had missed the beginning of the question, but he got the feeling it didn't really matter. There was white noise in his ears, mist in his vision, and fire in his blood. He felt a sudden need to escape that he could not act on. Gilbert dug his nails into his arm and _pulled._

"What do I do?" said Ludwig, likely in repetition. "I try to deal with him however I can, I suppose. A lot of the time, I will simply leave. Communicating with Gilbert while he's in that state can be… less than pleasant."

"He's not me." Gilbert could not even be sure he said it. The words were chopped, muddled, and the static just kept hissing. He locked eyes with Matthew as if it would save him. Oh god, please…

"Ludwig, I take it that you have trouble–" Was that thunder or was Gilbert imagining it? The lights flickered… probably. "–making the separation?"

"It all just seems very far-fetched to me."

Gilbert tried to speak, but his voice would not work. He tried to move, but his body did not listen. Then there was no pain, no panic, nothing but a strange, overwhelming feeling of falling.

_Click._

"Far-fetched? Me?" The King lifted a hand to his chest and gasped in feigned horror. "Why, Ludwig, I'm as real as the stick up your ass!"

"Oh." Matthew blinked away his thinly veiled shock and resumed a neutral expression. "Hello, Fritz."

"Fritz?" said Ludwig, his tone confused. After a moment his eyes widened in understanding, right before he rolled them. "Oh, _verdammt…_"

The King ignored him. He leant back in his seat, crossed his arms behind his head, and threw his feet out in front of him. "So, what have I missed? I see you guys are in the middle of a little pow-wow at the moment. Talking about me, right?"

"Well, _Gilbert, _considering you have been here the whole time-"

The King yawned. He was used to this little game, and really, it was just starting to bore him. "Not Gilbert. Seriously, aren't you getting a little tired of this?"

Ludwig hardened his gaze. "Very."

"Hold on, Ludwig," said Matthew. The King looked at him, waggled his eyebrows, and chuckled when he looked away and cleared his throat as if nothing had happened. "I know this is confusing, but I really think it's important that you remember to address him differently than you would Gilbert. Separating them is crucial."

The King pursed his lips, half-surprised, half-impressed. Maybe this kid wasn't as horrible as he thought. "Yeah, Luddy, listen to the twink."

"Such vulgarity…" muttered Ludwig under his breath. He shook his head and looked back at Matthew. "What am I supposed to call him?"

"Well, I usually stick with Fritz…"

"Call me your majesty, sweetheart."

Ludwig simply rolled his eyes, but The King knew better. He was hanging on by a thread. "What are we supposed to do now?" The King watched as Ludwig's hands tightened into white-knuckled fists, feeling smugly proud. "Surely we cannot have a serious session with him like this."

Matthew hummed in contemplation, his too-thin fingers toying with the cuffs of that ridiculous flannel shirt. After a moment he looked up, brows drawn together, and hesitantly met The King's unblinking gaze. "When is Gilbert coming back, Fritz?"

Ludwig muttered something in what sounded like exasperation. The King took note of it but ignored him, instead giving a slight shrug. "When I let him. I'll tell you one thing, though. Until _he _leaves…" The King jerked his thumb at Ludwig, "…_I'm _not going anywhere."

"How very mature of you, _Gilbert_." Ludwig spat the word as if he was dead set on murdering The King through tone alone.

"Ludwig, remember what I said about-"

"Give it up, princess. You can't teach an old dog new tricks." The King turned in his seat, brought his feet up, and threw them across Ludwig's lap. Ludwig balked, then made an ultimately unsuccessful attempt at shoving him off. The King exhaled loudly and closed his eyes. "Ahh, much better."

"Get off of me."

"Nah." The King grinned. He had observed enough over the years. He knew Ludwig's weak spots, and he was more than willing to poke, prod, pick and stab at them. Ludwig did the same thing, after all. Two could play at his little game. "So, Luddy, how's the little Italian?"

Ludwig snapped to attention. His back straightened, his shoulders squared, and his eyes flashed unmistakably. He cleared his throat and spoke evenly, a pathetic cover-up. "Do… do you mean Feliciano?"

"Whatever." The King raised his eyebrows, his thoughts whirring through his mind in an excited haze. This was almost too much fun. "Anyway, are you still telling people you aren't fucking him?"

Ludwig's mouth fell open, his face going a bright, furious red. "Excuse me?"

The King chuckled. "Guess so. Denial is a special thing, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Ludwig's voice was controlled, but his eyes darkened, narrowed. It was a dead giveaway.

"Of course you don't." Matthew attempted to interject then, but the King simply held out a hand. He wasn't at all surprised when Matthew deflated immediately. He let his eyes fall to the window as lightning illuminated to sky, only half concentrating now, since he knew he had already won. "Well, Ludwig, if you _really _aren't going to touch him…" The King ran his teeth over his bottom lip. "I guess that makes him fair game."

"That's _it._" Ludwig gave the King's legs a powerful shove, shot to his feet, and started towards the door. "I apologize, Matthew. I cannot take this seriously."

"Ludwig, please, I-" Matthew was cut off when the door slammed. The lights above flickered again, sending dark, wavering shadows across his soft features. The King looked into his widened eyes when the light returned, and Matthew immediately looked away. He threw his gaze to the door again and froze it there, as if he had half a mind to bolt through it.

"Well, that's over with. He was really bringing down the mood, don't you think?" The King rose to his feet, strode across the room, and leaned his full weight against the door. Matthew had no choice but to look at him now. The King smiled down at his little caged bird. "Now it's just you and me."

"I… suppose." Matthew drummed his fingers against the desk. Brief silence fell as the rain pounded steadily against the window, and then his expression turned neutral, almost stern. Of course he did not actually get there. "That was quite the display."

The King scoffed. "Please. If anything, I was being nice. I could do a lot worse to that jackass."

"Now, Fritz," Matthew leant against his elbows, the crook in his eyebrow likely meant to come off as perceptive. "If you hate Ludwig so much, why would you come out when you know he's around?"

"For fun. Honestly, did you see that shit?"

Matthew nodded. "I see. Is there a reason you enjoy getting a rise out of him?"

The King flipped his hand dismissively. He knew what Matthew was trying to do, and he wasn't falling for it. "Enough of this therapy crap. Gilbert might buy into it, but you're not going to get that out of me," he said. Besides, He didn't care about Ludwig, and he was sick of thinking about him. Ludwig was only an obstacle today. His intentions had rested elsewhere since he last came out. He had allowed himself to be dormant for days, thinking, plotting, waiting. Finally, the time was right. The King pushed off the door, turned to Matthew's desk, and smacked both his hands flat on the surface. He leant in closer as he spoke. "Besides, I only came around to have a little chat with you."

"Oh?" Matthew wove his hands together. "Well, alright."

"Good, good." The King let his eyes graze over the room – the door, the desk, the file cabinet. He smirked when he remembered its contents, then looked back at Matthew. "Now, tell me, has Gilly been behaving?" he asked, his voice dripping with patronization.

"He's been just fine."

"Fine?" The King lifted his arm and yanked down the sleeve. Running across his skin were long, red, jagged scratches that Gilbert would go to the end of the earth to cover. Matthew could barely stifle his gasp – he looked a bit too concerned. The King's pulse sped up in anticipation as he laughed. "Yeah, exactly."

"That's…" Matthew trailed off, blinked away his shock, and jerked his eyes away. "If you already know, why are you asking me?"

The King pulled down his sleeve, then raised his other hand in resignation. "Hey, I just wanted your opinion. I would think you'd know more, though, considering…" He let the sentence go open-ended.

Matthew blinked, the picture of contrived ignorance. "Considering what?"

"Oh, come on." The King drummed on the desk, waiting, but grew impatient almost immediately. He rolled his eyes and continued. "Gilbert is a favorite of yours, right?"

A pause. Matthew narrowed his eyes, perhaps in suspicion, perhaps because he didn't know what else to do. Finally, he said, "Therapists don't play favorites."

The King felt a stab of anger. "Bullshit." He smacked the desk, causing Matthew to jump. "You're telling me you don't pay special attention to Gil? The guy who apparently pays more attention to you than your group activity garbage?" The King laughed wildly, then brought his hands up to form a heart. "_Sweet _Gil?"

Matthew's mouth fell open. For a moment he froze, then his head jerked in the direction of his file cabinet. "You _read _my notes?" He turned back around just as The King laughed. "When? How?" His voice was half-panicked. Matthew was obviously fighting; fighting so hard to keep up his professional, calm front. But it was faltering. It was shattering apart and falling to their feet just like the pouring rain outside the window.

"Never mind that." The King looked Matthew straight in the eyes and raised an eyebrow. "I bet you don't go around calling all your patients 'sweet.'"

Matthew shrunk down in his seat, which made his presence even less authoritative. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm trying to say I know what's going on, and I don't like it." The King's amusement started to fade as he mulled over the possible outcomes – having Matthew around all the time, Gilbert being happier, _disappearing… _He tightened his hands into fists as his sides. "Gilbert obviously likes you or some shit, god knows why. And according to this crap, you're pretty fond of him."

Matthew drew only one thing from that. "Gilbert… has feelings for me." It came out as more of a statement than a question, and he immediately bowed his head and starred at the floor. He did not look embarrassed, happy, or shocked… if anything, he looked concerned.

"Acute observation, Sherlock. Next you'll tell me it's raining." The King curled his lip and rolled his eyes. What did Gilbert see in this little pansy? "What are you going to do about it?"

"What am I going to do about it?" Matthew parroted, his face flushed and his rapidly moving eyes overwhelmed. His voice dipped even quieter. "I…Well… I obviously cannot become involved with a patient."

"Oh, great, you return it?"

"Of course not!" Matthew practically shouted. His eyes flew open, shocked at his own immediate response, and for a moment The King mirrored his disbelief. Before he could say anything, Matthew suddenly stood. "This is completely unproductive. Besides, we ran over time. I have to go now."

_He's lying. _The King watched Matthew skirt around him, avoiding his gaze, scurrying towards the door like a dog with its tail between its legs. "I don't believe you," he spat. Matthew did not respond. Anger rose in his chest, and The King took a thunderous step forward. "Are you ignoring me?" Again, no response. There was red in his vision now, and even worse, there was a fuzzy white haze over everything that had nothing to do with the flickering lights. Time was running out. Anger coupled with urgency, almost panic. "That's a bad idea, princess."

"I-I'm sorry, I…" Matthew's hands shook around the door handle. He started to turn it, but The King lurched towards, reached out, and grabbed his shoulder. Matthew jumped.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Matthew didn't. There was a hiss in The King's ears now, and it was mocking him. Gilbert probably sensed what was going on. That was _disgusting. _He should be in control, dammit! Blinding fury ran through his veins, his arms, and it all spun back on how violently he jerked Matthew around to face him. "If there's one thing I can't stand…" He tightened his grip, tensed his jaw, and spoke through clenched teeth. Matthew trembled beneath his hold, and it only made him angrier. "It's a goddamn _coward." _

The King lifted his free hand, reached back as far as he could, and smacked Matthew across the face with an open palm.

…

The first thing Gilbert heard was a cry of pain. He blinked back a surge of fog, and slowly, confusedly, like a camera coming into focus, reality came slipping back. He could feel the ground beneath his feet. He could hear the rain pounding against the windows, the thunder shaking the building.

He could see Matthew in front of him, pressed against the door, tears in his eyes and a shaky hand touching his cheek.

There was a red welt forming on his face.

Oh no, no, no… Gilbert realized he was still grasping Matthew's shoulder and jumped backwards. His mind swum with loose puzzle pieces as he tried, frantically, to piece this terrifying picture together. He could reach only one conclusion. "Oh shit, oh _gott…_"

Matthew's voice was small, broken. "Gilbert?"

Slowly, Gilbert nodded. He was barely able to force a response. "It's me." He dragged his eyes upwards, his gaze focused on that damn welt, and his stomach tightened into painful knots. Sickening guilt stabbed through his ribs, and he asked what he already knew the answer to. "Did he hurt you?"

Matthew just nodded.

Gilbert realized, with a powerful jolt of nausea, that this was the worst thing The King had ever done. Crashing cars, starting fights… somehow none of it compared to leaving a mark on someone as sweet and kind as Matthew. He was the innocent one in all of this, why should he suffer? Gilbert felt a ludicrous mix of anger, fear, and all-consuming shame. "I'm so sorry," he said, even though the words felt hollow and useless. Matthew said nothing. He looked too stunned to move or speak. Gilbert felt about the same, but he forced his legs to move, forced his voice to work. "Shit, that looks bad. I…" When Gilbert absently reached forward, Matthew choked back a gasp and recoiled.

That was when Gilbert realized: the bird finally had the sense to be wary of the bear. Even if Gilbert was not the one to hurt him, Matthew had every right to be horrified with him, to hate him. Gilbert should not have even been surprised. But, despite all logic, he felt as if his heart had been torn from this body and the blood in his veins had frozen. Gilbert felt like he was dying but some cruel god was keeping him alive.

The one person who treated at him like a person – smiled at him, spoke to him like an equal, made him feel like something other than a monster – was now afraid of him. Just like everyone else.

So Gilbert opened the door and ran.

.

Gilbert had no idea how long The King had been out, but by the time he tore out of Matthew's office, tripped a couple times, and ran straight down the hall to an unknown location, it was dark. Lightning was flashing every few seconds now, casting the vacant halls in disorienting shadows. Gilbert was vaguely sure he heard Matthew's voice, that there was a set of footsteps following him, but he could not be sure. Maybe he was simply imagining it. Everything was moving too fast and hurt too much for him to be certain about anything.

There really were too many doors in this damn place. Gilbert passed about a million of them before he hit a dead end. Then he had no choice but to open one, his hand trembling and his breath coming too hard. He wanted to disappear, to hide, to lock himself away so he couldn't hurt anyone anymore. He did the next best thing. He stumbled inside this random door – that happened to lead to a broom closet – slammed it behind him, and pressed his full weight against it. By the time Gilbert sunk down to the floor, he was sobbing.

"Gilbert!" Matthew's desperate tone tore through Gilbert's mind like a bullet. He tried to cover his ears, make the cruel world stop, but nothing could drown out the banging and pleads. "Gil, please, it's alright."

Alright? How could anything ever be alright? He had a beast inside of him that wanted to ruin his life. Ludwig hated him, his grandfather wouldn't speak to him, and now even Matthew thought he was a monster. On top of that, Gilbert couldn't even blame them. No one could hate him as much as he hated himself.

"Please talk to me." Matthew was still knocking as he spoke, and it sounded like gunshots. "I'm not mad, Gil. I promise."

Gilbert bit down on his lip. Out of all things, Matthew should not have been saying _that _to him. He should despise him, for his own sake. Gilbert attempted speak, to tell Matthew to leave him to rot, but all that escaped his mouth was another strangled sob. He did not even think to feel ashamed about it. He was filled to capacity with shame and at this point nothing could make it worse.

Matthew continued to speak, his voice too quiet and too kind, and Gilbert continued to cry and break and dissolve. It was as if all the pain he had ever covered with jokes and laughter was slamming back into him at once and demanding to be felt. He was not sure how long he spent like that. Eventually, the flickering lights filtering underneath the door finally gave out. Eventually, Matthew stopped speaking, stopped pounding. Gilbert did not even notice.

But even after things fell dark and silent, Gilbert could hear his breathing, feel his presence. Gilbert listened for fading footsteps that he never heard. He did not understand it, but he knew what the strange truth was.

Matthew never walked away.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8

It was not the worst thing to ever happen on the job, really.

That was what Matthew told himself as he looked in the mirror the morning after family therapy ended. The damage actually ended up being less than what he expected, after all. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers over his cheek, wincing only slightly as he traced the red, slightly swollen welt The King had left on him. It wasn't bad. He could barely see it, and now, it did not even hurt. That did nothing about the ache in his chest.

Matthew looked away from the mirror and down at the sink in an attempt to alleviate the feeling. Of course it didn't work, and he wondered momentarily why he thought it would. It was not even the injury that was bothering him. What was really bothering Matthew, though he didn't care to admit it, were the words The King had said to him moments before everything spiraled into chaos.

_Gilbert obviously likes you. _

Matthew sighed, turned on the faucet, and rinsed his face with cold water as if it would somehow wash the memory away. He would be lying if he said this had never happened before – a patient developed feelings for him, or rather, what they thought were feelings, when in reality all they liked was the idea of him. It was a projection of what they felt for other people in their lives. In the field, they called it transference. Every therapist had their own stories about it. It was common. It was as normal as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west.

What was a little less normal was the knot in Matthew's stomach, the haze in his mind, and the suspicious tightening in his chest whenever he thought about it.

_Of course not, _Matthew's mind kept shrieking at him, on constant replay as if he still needed to respond. The words had been instinctual, automatic. They still were. He knew he should mean them. Part of him was sure he did. But another part of him, some small, inane, torturous part…

Without making the conscious decision to do so, Matthew turned the water on hot. He let it run over his hands, splashed his face again and again, until the mirror fogged over and he could tell the rest of his face was just as red as the mark on his cheek. Again, it helped nothing. Certain things were impossible to wipe off.

With a heavy exhale, Matthew turned the water off and grappled for a towel to dry his face. This was not the worst thing to happen on the job. He had been through worse, dealt with and overcome worse. This was a walk in the park. He continued to remind himself of those things as he pulled on his clothes, iced his face one last time, and made his way out the front door. At least he had the morning off.

He should not have needed the break, but he did.

.

Matthew was grateful for the noise in the restaurant as he walked through the front doors. It was a different kind of noise from what he was used to… all lilting laughter and clinking plates and casual conversation, rather than incoherent mumbling and stretches of unwanted silence. The scent of bacon and brewing coffee was welcome compared to cleaning chemicals. The change was almost startling. However, it seemed no matter how far away Matthew got from the hospital, his mind was always there. The events of the previous day still clung to the back of his mind.

He pushed past them when he saw a friendly face, heard a familiar voice.

"Matthew, darling! You made it!"

"Of course." Matthew walked over the booth his long-time acquaintance had saved for him and sat down. She was a psychiatrist as well, and had worked with Matthew up until a few months ago, when she transferred to a different hospital a few towns over. Matthew missed having her around – her gentle nature worked wonders with even the most difficult of patients. "Good morning, Charlotte. It's been awhile."

"It certainly has." Charlotte pushed a mug of coffee towards Matthew, who accepted it with a thankful nod. "There just hasn't been any time. When _was_ your last day off? Was it before or after the turn of the century?" she asked, her green eyes lighting up as she giggled.

Matthew laughed along with her, but the truth of the matter was he could not remember his last day off either. "Even today it's only the morning."

Charlotte rolled her eyes as she poured sugar into mug. "Honestly, Matthew, one of these days you're going to keel over and-" She looked up from her cup, and her eyes flew from half-lidded to wide open. "My goodness! What happened to your face?"

Matthew brought his hand to his cheek instinctually, perhaps self-consciously. "Is it really that noticeable?" he mumbled. "Anyway, it really isn't a big deal. There was a small incident with a patient. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Charlotte blinked away her shock and shook her head. "Doesn't look all that small to me," she said, turning her attention to her menu. "It seems like everyday there's a new catastrophe in that ward. Don't get me wrong, I loved that job, but things like this make me thankful I switched to pediatrics."

"Well, it certainly is a handful."

A pause. "What _did_ happen, anyway?"

"Oh." Matthew lowered his hand, opened the menu he had not yet touched, and pretended to read it. Somehow, he wasn't all that hungry. "I have this DID patient… Gilbert." He forced down the unruly jump in his chest with a long sip of black coffee. The bitterness burned its way down. "He's nice, but his alter isn't. At all." Matthew felt another surge of unacceptable emotion – this one a tingling jolt of fear – and drowned it in another drink of coffee.

"Ooh." Charlotte nodded solemnly. "I've never had a DID patient, myself. Frankly, I'm not too upset about that."

"I've had a couple, but…" Matthew faltered, unsure whether or not he should continue. All these years and he thought he'd seen everything. However, lately… "I've never had one quite like this." Speaking felt like resigning. A waiter came at that very moment, and Matthew ordered the first pancake dish he saw on the menu. He asked for extra maple syrup.

Charlotte ordered her waffles, and for a moment, Matthew almost thought he was safe. Of course that did not end up being true. "So," said Charlotte, closing her menu deliberately and handing it to the waiter. "What makes this one so special?"

Matthew really should not have been caught off guard. "Huh?" he sputtered anyway.

"You said you've never had one like this. You have always prided yourself on having seen it all, Matthew," said Charlotte with a shrug. "So, what has this guy done that managed to surprise even you?"

Matthew was not sure how to respond. He was not sure what it was about Gilbert – he just always managed to bring something new and interesting into Matthew's day, whether The King was involved or not, and that was only a bad thing about fifty percent of the time. It was confusing. It was _new. _And that was just unsettling. Matthew noticed his hands were unsteady, so he tightened his grip on the mug until his knuckles went white. He wanted to brush it off, to lie, to do anything that would make him believe things were more under control than they actually were, but the words were stuck in his throat and choking him.

"Dissociative identity disorder is quite controversial, right?"

It took Matthew a moment to realize that Charlotte was changing the subject. She must have sensed his discomfort, and he was not sure whether to feel relieved, embarrassed, or even more nervous than he already was. He chose to ignore the confliction and push past his personal feelings on the matter. He was, after all, a professional.

"It certainly is," he said. "You'd be surprised how many people simply don't believe it exists. Even some doctors." Matthew immediately thought back to Ludwig, to their disastrous session, and tried not to cringe. His chest ached in sympathy.

Charlotte clicked her tongue. "That really is a shame," she said. "It is kind of interesting, though. You hardly see debate like this with any other illness. I mean, really, how many times have you heard a licensed practitioner dispute the validity of something like anxiety or depression?"

"Nowhere near as much as DID," said Matthew with a sigh. "I think the problem is how…_theatrical _that illness can be."

"It can be quite the sight, from what I'm hearing." Charlotte slowly let her gaze fall from Matthew's eyes to his cheek, and Matthew could barely fight the urge to clap his hand over it. He was strangely ashamed of the mark. It was a physical reminder that he had failed, written right across his face.

Matthew just forced a smile. "Like I always say, I've seen it all."

"I suppose so." Charlotte was torn from the conversation when their food arrived. Matthew started in on his pancakes the moment the plate was set in front of him, though his stomach was in knots and he was almost too distracted to taste the food. Charlotte spoke again as she cut into her waffles. "Enough about work. How have you been otherwise, Matthew? Are you seeing anyone?" She raised an eyebrow. "Someone I'm not related to, maybe?"

Matthew stopped chewing and stared blankly at the table's surface, his face flushing with heat. Would Charlotte ever let those few dates he had gone on with her brother go? "Very funny," he said. "But no, I'm not."

Charlotte exhaled, nearly a sigh. "Oh, darling, there really is more to life than work."

"That's not why! I just, um…" Then, Matthew thought to his packed schedule, his never-ending pile of paperwork, his increasingly challenging patients… he sighed. She was right. He was in far over his head, and there simply was not time for anything else anymore. If only to save face, he finished, "I haven't met anyone I'm interested in."

Charlotte only hummed in acknowledgment. She likely didn't believe him. Matthew felt a sudden urge to be sick when he realized he didn't exactly believe himself, either.

But Matthew was nothing if not good at distracting himself. He spent the rest of breakfast doing just that, asking Charlotte questions about her own – far more interesting – life, listening intently to her answers, speaking when he could find something to say. He had a perfectly pleasant time. Somewhere in the midst of it, however, a small, itching thought crept up his spine and into his head: he was growing tired of _pleasant. _Tired of hearing about other people's lives, tired of ignoring the humdrum and constant stress of his own.

But Matthew ultimately ignored it, just as he ignored many other things.

The meal seemed to take a year to end. By the time Matthew stood from the booth, he was antsy, almost jumpy, and something told him that had little to do with the coffee he had drank. He smiled calmly at Charlotte anyway. "Thank you for meeting me here today," he said. "It was nice seeing you again."

"It definitely was!" Charlotte stepped forward and embraced him, just like she always did, and Matthew leant into it and patted her back three times, just like he always did. This time he felt strangely apprehensive about it. It was not that he did not like Charlotte, but he was suddenly painfully aware of how _routine _this routine truly was. "We should do it again soon."

"Of course." Matthew meant the words, but he found himself walking to the front of the restaurant a bit too swiftly.

"Good luck with that patient of yours. He sounds like a handful."

Suddenly, almost painfully, Matthew felt his stomach flip and his chest swell. Well, _that _certainly wasn't routine. He tried to shake off the feeling. "Thank you, but really, he's just another patient."

Matthew repeated the words over and over in his mind as he walked out the doors: _just another patient… _That was what Gilbert was. At least, that was what he should be.

.

Gilbert really hadn't meant for it to get this bad.

Ever when the rest of his life was an uncontrollable mess, this was the one thing he had total, unbreakable control over, he had always told himself. But there was blood on the sheets now, and his denial had fallen with it. Gilbert couldn't stop the scratching now. Even worse, he was not sure he even cared enough to want to.

Gilbert's arms were trembling. He lifted a shaking hand to rub the skin as it burned, which only worsened it, but he barely noticed. Nothing could distract him from the throbbing ache in his chest that had settled there the night before. The events played over in his mind involuntarily, endlessly. Every time he remembered Matthew's terrified expression it stabbed into him like a knife. Much of last night was a blur, but that image was perfectly clear.

Where _was_ Matthew, anyway?

Gilbert had not seen him all morning, and he was beginning to think he had simply up and quit. It would not be surprising. Matthew must hate him. He must be _afraid _of him. And he should be, because Gilbert was a monster.

Another image, another searing red line. Blood slicked the tips of Gilbert's fingers. Finally he yanked down his sleeve, sick, dizzy, and blinked in an attempt to clear his blurry vision. He had not gotten any sleep. There were too many thoughts raging through him, too much guilt sticking in his ribs, too many anxieties thrumming through his blood. And it had not gotten any better.

At the smallest noise Gilbert looked up, heart pounding, eyes flickering, like prey watching for a predator. Guilt mixed with exhaustion, it seemed, made him hyper-vigilant and jittery. He waited for something to jump out at him, for the building to collapse… of course nothing like that happened. But the voice he ended up hearing broke the world to pieces just as violently.

"Are you in here, Gil?" There was a light knocking, and Gilbert lurched back as if someone had fired a gun. His blood ran cold. "I've been… looking for you."

Gilbert was immediately torn. Matthew had been looking for him, which must have meant he didn't completely despise him, but at the same time Gilbert was in no way ready to see him. He doubted he ever would be. But there was no way around it, because they were too birds trapped in a cage, and seeing each other was inevitable. Gilbert was unsure how to feel about that. He simply said, "Oh, cool. Come on in."

The door opened and Gilbert closed his eyes, tipping his head back to rest against the wall, and trying desperately to keep himself in check. He opened them again when he felt the other end of the bed dip, and Matthew was sitting there, that same gentle smile on his face and… a red mark still on his cheek. Gilbert took a breath and adverted his eyes. He will not fall apart. _He _did nothing to this man.

"Good morning," said Matthew as if everything was normal. As normal as things could get, anyway. "How are you feeling, Gil?"

Gilbert opened his mouth to say he was fine but no response reached the surface. He could not be dishonest today, not to Matthew… perhaps he was just too tired. "You know," he mumbled uselessly. "Been better."

Matthew's smile fell, and he nodded once as if to resign to something. Maybe he was finally sick of pretending. Gilbert certainly was. "Me too," he said quietly.

Gilbert should not have expected anything different, but his stomach still twisted into sick knots. He wanted to get up, to run, to explode from his body, his skin was burning, but he refused to give in at this moment. Gilbert simply picked at his sleeve.

"So, anyway," Matthew continued after a moment. "About…yesterday." He stumbled over the words, refusing to meet Gilbert's eyes, and for a moment he almost conveyed an emotion he had never let show through before: uncertainty. There was something guarded about it, almost secretive.

The knots tightened. Gilbert ignored them. "What about it?" he asked as if he had forgotten everything, as if it never happened in the first place, as if his mind was not flooded with thoughts of that damn broom closet. Shame ate at him. He ignored that, too.

"I know it's probably the last thing you want to do, but I really think we need to talk about what happened."

What good would that do, Gilbert's mind immediately screamed. He didn't want to talk about it; he wanted to forget about it. But in this place, he supposed, that wasn't going to be an option. Besides, listening to Matthew speak for a while didn't seem too awful. "I guess," he said finally. "Is this an impromptu session or something?"

Matthew shrugged, his smile returning slightly. "Not really. It's more just two people having a conversation."

Gilbert wondered if that should unnerve him or not. "Awesome," he said anyway, forcing a grin that hurt his cheeks.

Matthew wrung his hands together, his thin fingers twisting together like twigs in a bird's nest. "How much do you remember?"

For once, Gilbert actually remembered _more _than he would like to. He remembered the nightmare that was family therapy, remembered slowly losing his grip on himself, more than anything remembered the world-destroying sound of Matthew _screaming…_ "Not much, actually."

Matthew looked up from his fidgeting hands, and he met Gilbert's gaze just long enough to look skeptical. Either out of decency or plain trust, he nodded once and said, "As I would expect."

Silence fell, and Gilbert's dishonesty hung tangibly in the air. Matthew went back to his fidgeting, Gilbert went back to his sleeve picking, and it did not take long for the combined weight of their nervous habits to push down on Gilbert's shoulders and drive him mad. Concern, denial, flippancy, concern again… it was a tiring cycle. He eventually broke the tension with a heavy hammer of honesty. "Alright, fine, I guess I remember a few things." Matthew perked up, and Gilbert went on before he could regret it. "Well, I know that bastard hurt you. We've established that."

"Well…yes." Matthew lifted his hand to his face, caught himself, and dropped it. "Is that all you remember?"

"I know I felt like a worthless piece of shit afterwards," said Gilbert with a small shrug, a forced chuckle, all of it an attempt at being flippant he hoped was successful. Really, he was dead serious. "I know I ran away and hid like a damn child." He paused, swallowed, and said what stuck out the most. "And I know that, for whatever reason, you stayed with me."

Matthew opened his mouth, looking almost on the verge of denying it, but no words escaped his lips and they were once against basked in knowing silence.

It was a silence that needed to be broken. "That meant a lot to me, you know." It was strange, speaking so openly. But Gilbert barely thought about it, because he was an autopilot now, and before he could stop himself he edged a bit closer to the end of the bed. His heart sped up painfully in his chest. "Thanks for that."

"I… did what I could," said Matthew quietly. He did not move, but his fingers curled into his palm, his shoulders tensed, and it was easy to see he was well aware how close Gilbert had gotten. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. "How do you feel about all of that? What happened before…you left, I mean. You mentioned feeling worthless?"

Memory hit again, and Gilbert nearly laughed. It was easier than crying. "Damn straight."

"Can you elaborate?"

Gilbert could elaborate, all right. That didn't mean he was sure he wanted to. But this spiel had been locked inside him for too long, and he was quickly losing the will to keep it all hidden. So he spoke before he could think about it too much. "You know, Matthew, Fritz has done a lot of shit. He's thrown around plenty of insults and started plenty of fights, a lot of the time with people I care about. He's cost me relationships. I'm used to it by now." Gilbert picked at his sleeve to keep from ripping it down. "I know I got hysterical last night, but the thing is, I don't think that's because he hurt _someone._" He closed his eyes briefly and tried to bring the air back into his lungs. This felt like a turning point, somehow. "It was because he hurt _you._"

Matthew blinked, his expression strangely blank. "Oh."

"I'm really fucking sorry about all of that." With his heart pounding, mind spinning, and hands shaking, Gilbert reached across the shrinking space between them and covered Matthew's free hand with his. "Look, I just want you to know… _I _would never hurt you." Gilbert looked up, his eyes screaming all he could never say. He hoped, desperately, that it was enough. "You're too important to me," he finished quietly.

Matthew looked up, stared. The pinch in his expression and the flash in his eyes betrayed the fact that he understood exactly what Gilbert was trying to tell him. At the same time, he did not look surprised. And that was just unsettling.

"Gilbert…" said Matthew finally, the word something close to a sigh. He looked away, shielding his face. "You don't need to apologize. I know there are certain things we can't control. But…" Gilbert got the feeling they weren't talking about last night anymore and it confused him. Matthew shook his head, looking tired, and slowly pulled his hand away. There was purpose in the simple act. Gilbert forgot how to breathe. "There are also certain boundaries that can't be crossed."

Gilbert instantly realized, clear as day, what was hiding between the spaces in Matthew's words. He was saying he could never be… what Gilbert wanted him to be, somewhere beneath several layers of denial. Suddenly, violently, like a match to a trail of gasoline, Gilbert felt his face flush in heat and a fire erupt in his gut. What had he been thinking? Matthew was his _therapist. _Every kind word, gentle smile… it was part of his job. Of course he could not feel the same. But Gilbert had been foolish enough to forget about that, and now he was stuck with these ridiculous, inescapable feelings he had no idea what to do with.

So, Gilbert laughed.

"Hey, you don't need to get so serious!" Gilbert nearly shouted, wild and manic. "Seriously! You look like you're at a funeral or something, I was just kidding around, I mean…" He fumbled for words, and in his frenzy, he unthinkingly lifted his hand to cup the back of his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, Gilbert saw his sleeve was bright red.

Matthew was staring now, his face white and eyes wide. "Gilbert," he said, almost a gasp. He tried to mask it shock. He didn't succeed. "Push up your sleeves, please." His tone was all business, but the waver in his voice divulged something else.

"It's nothing." The words were automatic and came out too quickly to be believable.

"I'm not upset with you, but this is serious." Matthew paused, sighed, and reached forward. Gilbert lurched back so quickly he nearly hit the wall.

"Fine, fine, just…" Gilbert scrambled off the bed and yanked his sleeves to his elbows, ashamed, humiliated, and completely unwilling to show it. He lifted his arms before he could think about it, as if he was proud of the blood and scars. But when he caught a glimpse at the mess he had inflicted upon himself, saw the shock in Matthew's eyes, and realized how truly insane he looked, tears welled up in his eyes. He smiled. "Looks like I'm bit of a train wreck, doesn't it?"

Matthew rose to his feet, and Gilbert took a step back. "Gil…"

"Please." Gilbert dropped his arms, whipped around, and opened the door. Before he walked off, his chest heavy with too many emotions and his mind tangled in too many thoughts, he said one last thing over his shoulder. "Call me Gilbert."

.

Gilbert curled his hands around the window's ledge and bit down on his lip, fighting the fiery urge to either scream or hit something. He was not sure what led him to this spot. Regardless, he could not move, could not turn away. All he could do was stand still, silent, and stare at the spectacle in front of him. It was like watching a train wreck… he had to look, even if the sight made him ill.

A safe distance away and hopefully out of sight, Gilbert allowed his eyes to graze other the scene for what felt like the millionth time. He dragged his gaze over the myriad of flowers in the newly planted garden, the mud and stray leaves left over from the storm, and finally, confusingly, infuriating, Ivan. Ivan, who was smiling. Ivan, who currently had a short, raven haired, perfectly sane looking man pulled into a kiss.

Gilbert grimaced, still staring. He had been watching them for fifteen minutes now. It was a strange thing to do, he supposed, but he had given up on acting anything less than insane some time between last night and the moment he tore away from Matthew that morning. Besides, he was not watching them because he enjoyed it. He was doing so out of a pressing need to know _why. _To know _how. _

He wanted to know how _Ivan, _out of all people, could get someone to love him… especially when Gilbert was apparently incapable of doing the same.

Gilbert forced the thought away with a furious shake of the head. When he looked up, he saw the Asian man was walking towards the doors, and the spell was broken. He resigned to the fact he would never know how or why. Gilbert twisted around and walked off, back into the grey, lonely hospital, back to his grey, lonely life.

.

For a long time, Gilbert walked in circles as if he was lost. In reality, he was beginning to know this place and its twisting halls like a home. And that was just depressing. But he did not want to go back to his room, did not want to see Ivan happy and babbling about his little _boyfriend_, did not want to take the chance of Matthew seeking him out again. So Gilbert wandered. He wandered until he heard a voice outside Matthew's office.

"Dr. Williams, I believe we need to discuss our arrangement."

The voice was not familiar, but it was slightly accented, perhaps… Chinese. Gilbert paused, pressed his back against the wall, and listened to the conversation taking place on the other side of it.

"Ivan took off the scarf." It was Matthew speaking now, and he sounded shocked, unbelieving. Gilbert could barely stifle a gasp of shock himself. Ivan _never _took that thing off. Whoever this was, he must be important to him. One word, however, stuck out from everything else: _arrangement. _Gilbert strained his ears.

"He did," said the voice. He did not sound surprised. Rather, he sounded tired… or guilty. "Look, Dr. Williams, about all of this…"

But the man did not finished, and the next thing Gilbert heard was the door slamming.

.

As expected, Ivan was disgustingly happy when Gilbert entered their room. He was smiling even wider than normal, humming some annoying tune, his bright, unfocused eyes staring out the window. Gilbert glared at him, nauseated Ivan was able to carry on like this when he himself could only feel his stinging eyes and aching chest. He felt caught in a limbo – crazy enough for him and everyone else to sense it, but not crazy enough to pretend that wasn't true. Ivan was definitely on the far end of that spectrum. And that just wasn't fair.

After a moment of silent, burning observation, Gilbert could not help but spit, "What are you so happy about, jackass?" He knew the answer, but asked anyway.

Ivan turned to face Gilbert, blinking away his trance just enough to respond. "Yao was just here." He practically sang the name, and as he did, his cheeks flushed lightly. Gilbert was sickened by it.

"Oh, _him." _Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Good to know your dog still comes around." He wasn't exactly sure where these words were coming from – after all, it wasn't as if Gilbert had a problem with whomever Ivan happened to be seeing. He did not even know him. But since the night before, perhaps even longer, Gilbert had a fiery, painful knot of anger simmering in his chest, and he had to get it out somehow. If anyone was a suitable target, it was Ivan.

Ivan blinked, yet his smile did not falter. "You are very unpleasant today."

"Yeah?" Gilbert nearly laughed – that was the pot calling the kettle black if he had ever seen it. "Well, you would be too if you had to live with someone like yourself."

Ivan tilted his head, looking a bit incredulous, almost laughing. He looked at Gilbert as if he was a child spouting nonsense. "I'm afraid I do not know what you mean," he said, voice ripe with patronization. Gilbert felt his blood boil.

"You know exactly what I mean." Gilbert raked his fingers through his hair, probably with more force than what was actually necessary. The pain in his scalp distracted him from what he felt in his chest. But even that did not distract him from what he had seen that afternoon, what he had heard, and before he could stop it, he reached a breaking point and heard himself say, "Why does that guy keep showing up?" After a second's consideration, he added, "I mean, really, is someone paying him?"

Gilbert blinked against his own words. It seemed like… a reasonable conclusion, now that he thought about it. He would have laughed, would have felt better, but the fury in his veins was chocking out reasonable thought, drowning it until only malice was left.

"What?" Ivan's smile fell, and he immediately shook his head. "Yao comes because he loves me."

"Oh, so it's _love _now?" Gilbert practically shouted, the word slicing through his mind, jabbing into his heart, polluting his already tangled thoughts. Ivan did not deserve this kind of thing, and maybe he didn't either, but… Gilbert laughed. He wasn't even sure why. "Look, Ivan. There are two options here. One, Yao is just as crazy as you are. Two, someone is paying the poor bastard." Gilbert spoke as confidently as he could muster, but no matter how hard he tried, the words felt like something he was trying to convince himself of from beginning to end. A bubble of hot anger rose in his throat.

Desperate for a distraction, Gilbert let his gaze fall. That was when he realized a few things. One, Ivan really had taken off that scarf. Two, running along his neck were straight, raised scars, exposed and conspicuous under the harsh fluorescent lights. And three… he could use this. Gilbert actually grinned. "Or maybe he has a thing for scars."

It was a low blow, and they both knew it. Ivan froze, went white, and lifted his hand to cover his neck. He looked close to tears, and Gilbert was not sure how to feel when he realized that made him _happy. _He was not sure when he had sunk this low, forgotten his morals so thoroughly, but now, all he wanted was to hurt Ivan, to hurt somebody. He just wanted the pain to stop, even if that meant tossing it to some other poor bastard. It was all he could do.

Ivan finally whispered, "What do you want, Gilbert?"

The bubble burst. "What I _want…" _Gilbert shouted, unable to control his volume, his words, or the nails that cut into his skin before he could think about it. He did not even feel the digging scratches. He was numb to everything but rage. What that rage was actually directed towards, he could not even be sure anymore. "…is to know how someone like _you _ended up with _anyone!" _

Ivan clawed at the air, as if to search for a scarf that was no longer there. He finally settled on rubbing at his bare neck, the skin quickly going red, his eyes quickly going dark. He snapped his gaze down and stared blankly at the floor. "He loves me," he said, barely above a strained whisper.

"No, he doesn't." The words were instinctual, a security blanket that was already old and full of holes. No, Yao could not love Ivan, someone who was crazy, crazier than Gilbert, because if he did than that meant… "If Matthew won't even look at me, how…" Gilbert's senses came flooding back and he clamped his mouth shut. He had not meant to let that slip, and now it was hanging in the air, taunting him like a loaded gun.  
Then, Ivan stood. Gilbert barely noticed.

"You're fucking delusional, Ivan," said Gilbert, barely hearing himself, not thinking, and trying to keep breathing. "I don't belong in this nuthouse. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here with people like _you._"

_Liar, _Gilbert's traitorous mind kept shrieking through the fog, _Liar. _

"Oh, Gilbert." Gilbert looked up at the sound of Ivan's voice and realized he was standing right in front of him. And he was clutching Gilbert's shoulders, so tight it hurt. He was not afraid, he told himself, even as his throat closed. He tried to breathe through wads of cotton. "You are jealous of me." Ivan smiled again as he said it, but there was something behind it this time.

Gilbert writhed under Ivan's hold, but it was futile, and obvious he was trapped. He gripped his arm as his blood turned cold. But he was not afraid. "What the hell do you mean?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"You are jealous. Because Yao loves me, and no one could ever love an insane, unstable, malicious…" Each word was a hammer, a bullet. Gilbert could not breathe in the thick, tense pause that followed, and Ivan was still staring down at him, his eyes frozen cold, and he was shaking, or maybe Gilbert was. The white haze thickened. And eventually, Ivan drawled, as smoothly as a knife sliding across a throat, "…German."

And then Gilbert fell into it, like a nightmare, or a fever. It was almost willful.

_Click. _

.

The last thing Gilbert felt were hands around his neck.

.

"Dr. Williams, your assistance is required immediately."

Matthew blinked in surprise, turning towards the door that had been thrown open by orderly. His face was flushed, his eyes wide and startled, and his quick, urgent words hung tangibly in the air of his office.

Mathias sat on the couch on the opposite side of the room. Maybe it was the manic episode he was in the middle of, or maybe he was just used to this, but he did not look the least bit disturbed by this intrusion. "Wait, is something going on? What's going on? Can I help? I'm tired of sitting still, I want to leave, can I call Lukas?"

"Um…" Matthew shook his head lightly. "I'm in the middle of a session at the moment. What seems to be the problem?"

"There was an incident between two of the patients," said the orderly. "Braginsky and Beilschmidt, I think."

Mathias just groaned. Matthew ignored him. Knowing how those two got along, it did not surprise him. But this was the first thing he had been interrupted mid-appointment. "And what was the incident?"

"Seriously, what's going on?"

The orderly glared at Mathias, rolled his eyes, and then turned his attention back to Matthew. "There was a violent acceleration. No one really knows how it got started or what exactly happened, but by the time we got there, Beilschmidt was out cold. Braginsky is in solitary, but-"

"What's his condition?" said Matthew, interrupting.

"Beilschmidt's? Not sure. He's still out. We've got him in emergency, and-"

"Excuse me, Mathias." Matthew got up, collected his things, and ran.

Everything quickly turned to a blur. Matthew tore through the ward like he belonged there, a fire in his feet, lightning in his veins, the startled orderly barely able to keep up as he rambled off Gilbert's whereabouts. Matthew was filled to the brim with an unfamiliar mix of fear and nerves. This was not even what they had gotten him for. Matthew knew he needed to speak with Ivan, to deal with the technicalities of the aftermath. But he could not stop, could not slow down, could not even pay any mind to the looks he knew he was getting. He had not felt this alive in years, and it was for all the wrong reasons.

Matthew knew he was not acting professional. He was not keeping his cool. But dammit, he was _afraid, _and he had forgotten emotion this strong was possible.

And it was all over Gilbert, the man who was 'just another patient.'

That scared him even more.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	9. Chapter 9

Gilbert was not sure what woke him. He was not sure where he was, what had gotten him there, or how much time had passed. All he knew was he had a massive headache. Slowly, Gilbert opened his eyes and blinked against the light. It was too bright to see, his throat was too dry to speak, and his head pounded too intensively to think. All that was left was his hearing.

Gilbert heard it all at once: a soft gasp, muffled sniffling, and a soft, quiet voice whispering, "Oh, thank god."

He must have been dreaming. Either that, or Gilbert must have died, gotten into heaven somehow, and was hearing the voice of an angel. There was no other explanation. Through his haze, he forced his voice to work. "What…"

"Gilbert," said the angel, his voice managing to soothe the pain hammering into Gilbert's temples. "You were unconscious. I know you must be confused, but everything is alright, okay?"

"Everything is alright…" Gilbert's throat burned as he parroted the words, and his senses began to filter back. As the spinning room came back into focus, he turned his head and realized the angel speaking to him was, in fact, Matthew. But there really wasn't a difference. Both birds and angels had wings, after all. Before Gilbert could fully come back to himself, he mumbled, "Birdie?"

Matthew narrowed his eyes. "Pardon?"

"Nothing," said Gilbert quickly. Confused, in pain, and a little embarrassed, he looked around the room and realized it wasn't his own. "What… what happened, exactly? Where am I?"

"You're in the emergency room." Matthew paused, wringing his hands together, as if he was not sure how or if he should continue. Finally, he said, "You have a moderate concussion. We were worried about brain damage, but there isn't any, thank goodness." Another pause. Matthew sighed, looked up. "Do you remember anything, Gilbert? About what happened with Ivan?"

Oh. As the remnants of sleep broke away, Gilbert realized he did in fact remember what got him here. He remembered seeing Ivan, remembered attacking him for what he now realized was a petty reason, remembered the hot rage burning under his skin. He must have transitioned. Must have broken. At this point, Gilbert was hardly even surprised. "Yeah," he said, his voice raspy. "Ivan. The fight. Got it." For a moment, Gilbert was actually embarrassed. Had he really lost _that _badly?

"Okay." Matthew handed Gilbert an open bottle of water, which he gulped down as he struggled to sit up. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel like someone hit me with a bus, but other than that, I'm awesome."

Matthew smiled and chuckled lightly, but it did not carry to his eyes. They were red and tired, and after a second of staring, Gilbert noticed they were bleary. His stomach flipped.

"Matthew," said Gilbert before his mind caught up with his mouth, "have you been crying?"

Matthew blushed a light shade of pink, but he did not say anything. He just shrugged.

"Over me?"

Another shrug. "I was concerned," Matthew nearly whispered, sounding almost apologetic. "An orderly alerted me of what happened in the middle of a session. He told me you were unconscious, and that was it. I couldn't even check on you until this morning."

Gilbert's chest seized. Matthew had been worried about him. Matthew had _come looking _for him. He swallowed hard, reminded himself what reading too far into things would do to him, and said, "This morning? What time is it anyway?"

"Five-thirty a.m.," Matthew said and then quickly added, "I decided to come in a bit early."

"Jesus." Gilbert rubbed his temples, exhaustion now setting in on top of his headache, but he managed to flash a grin at Matthew anyway. "Like I said, man, you're killing yourself over this job."

Matthew parted his lips as if to speak, but ended up hesitating. He exhaled in what was almost a sigh, shrugged again, and slowly, a slight, weary smile graced his lips. He looked as if he had resigned to something. "It's hardly just a job anymore."

"Oh." Gilbert wasn't actually sure what that implied, and for his own sake, he decided not to think about it. "_Gott_, I'm so tired. Can I go back to sleep?"

Matthew shook his head. "I'm sorry, but just to be safe, it's best you stay awake for now."

Gilbert groaned. "Oh, that is _so _lame."

"Hey, I don't have to be anywhere for awhile. I could stay here with you." Gilbert's eyes went wide, and Matthew added, "To help you stay awake."

Gilbert suddenly felt strangely grateful for this mess of a situation. "That would be awesome."

"Okay." Matthew looked down at his hands, and after a brief pause that felt much longer than it actually was, Gilbert realized he must have been at a loss for words. They both were. There was too much between them now, all of which neither of them wanted to acknowledge. "So, um…" Matthew muttered eventually, the filler words somehow worse than the silence.

Gilbert said the first thing that came to mind. "Hey, since you already know Ludwig, apparently, why don't you tell me about your brother? Isn't he, like, famous or something?"

"Oh, Alfred." Matthew chuckled again, and the tension was broken. "Yes, he's quite the spectacle in the media. I keep forgetting you know nothing about him. Most people do."

"Frankly, I don't give a damn about American football." Gilbert managed something close to a shrug from the position he was laying in. "I'm just curious what he's like. I'm sure he can't be that special." The final _compared to you_ was omitted, but Matthew's light flush and small smile showed he hadn't missed it.

So, as the pink sunrise filtering in from the window faded into a blue morning, Matthew spoke, and Gilbert listened. It was a welcome change. Matthew told him all about the apparently legendary Alfred F. Jones as if he was the main character of a superhero comic. According to Matthew, Alfred was an outgoing, All-American, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, charismatic star quarterback who held the ability to charm anyone he met. He told him about his career, told him about injuries he'd powered through, told him about the glamorous, paparazzi-plagued life he lead.

But Matthew lingered on one subject more than anything else – probably because it had caused Gilbert's jaw to drop, and he had immediately pressed for more details. Alfred was hopelessly in love with his high school best friend, who had just recently found again with Matthew's reluctant help: Arthur Kirkland.

"It was so surreal when he checked in as a schizophrenic. He functioned perfectly well in high school, from what I saw," Matthew had told him. "Arthur didn't remember me. I guess that was a good thing, because… I just couldn't tell Alfred. I knew it would kill him to see his old friend mumbling to himself about the unicorns and demons he's hallucinating."

But Alfred ended up unintentionally backing Matthew into a corner one day after a long, headless Internet search, and the truth came out. Now, Alfred drove all over God's green earth to visit Arthur weekly. It didn't matter how far away his games or practices forced him to be. He always got here.

"And he still loves him?" Gilbert asked eventually, as close as he could get to being on the edge of his seat without causing himself any more pain. "Even though Arthur is… kind of insane?" Gilbert felt almost guilty saying it, but there was no other way to put it. Arthur seemed like a permanent fixture here.

Matthew smiled tiredly, sadly. "I feel like you guys use Arthur as a scapegoat. He's not some uncontrollable lunatic, you know. He's just as human as everyone else." Gilbert shrugged apologetically, and Matthew went on. "But yes, Alfred doesn't even care that he has an illness, even though that gets him in trouble sometimes. He still sees him as that perfect bookworm he met when they were teenagers."

Gilbert gave a low whistle. "Wow."

What followed was a long, reflective silence, as if they both needed time to let such a fantastical story sink in. Gilbert was not sure how to feel. He was caught between confusion, jealousy, and… hope. He already knew that Yao loved Ivan, supposedly. And now he knew Alfred loved Arthur. Matthew could not feel that way for him, he was just about certain of that by now, but if things could work out for them…

"Oh, shoot." Gilbert was torn from his thoughts when Matthew abruptly stood from his seat, glancing down at the watch on his wrist. "I have to get going."

Gilbert was hit with a wave of disappointment, the kind that felt like a fist in his stomach. "Oh," he said, hopefully in a way that could be read as neutral. "Where are you heading?"

"I have to deal with Ivan." For a split second, Matthew grimaced, and Gilbert could not help but feel almost embarrassingly smug. "I'll be back, though."

"Cool." Gilbert's chest soared at that promise, but he'd be damned if he admitted it, let alone allow it to show on his face. "Hey, when am I getting back to my room?"

"This afternoon, probably."

"Oh, great. Can we cut to the chase and just feed me to lions?"

Matthew paused, then began to fiddle with his flannel cuff. Today's was red, Gilbert noticed. "Well, actually, you won't be going back to that room. I had Mathias switch with you. You'll be getting his single."

Gilbert raised his eyebrows. "No shit. I'm getting my own room?" Matthew nodded, and Gilbert was filled with powerful, overwhelming relief that he covered with a wild grin and short burst of amused laughter. "Wow, maybe I should try getting knocked out more often, then. Maybe next time I'll get a gourmet meal."

Matthew giggled at that, but soon resumed a serious expression. "It's in everyone's best interest. I should have insisted you and Ivan be separated a long time ago, really. It's an issue of safety. I apologize for allowing things to get this far, I mean, I should have prevented…"

"Hey, come on." Even though it was likely a bad idea, Gilbert could not stop himself from reaching over the side of the bed and resting his hand on Matthew's arm. "We're grown men, not little boys. You can't control everything that happens to us."

"I guess… that's true, isn't it?" Either Matthew did not notice Gilbert was touching him, or he was pretending not to. Either way, he didn't pull back.

"Yeah. Give yourself a break." Gilbert smiled. "Anyway, thanks for moving me."

"You're welcome." Matthew finally pulled his arm away. Maybe Gilbert was delusional as a result of his concussion, or maybe he was simply too hopeful, but he could have sworn he did it more slowly than what was strictly necessary. "Well, I'll see you later."

"'Kay." Gilbert forced himself to look towards the window, even when he didn't hear Matthew walk away.

A pause. "Hey, Gilbert?"

"Yeah?"

"I just wanted to say…" Matthew trailed off, and Gilbert held his breath. When he felt flannel-clad arms surround his shoulders, the air was knocked clean from his lungs. Matthew just whispered. "I'm glad you're okay."

Then, Gilbert didn't care about his concussion, his bruises, his scars, or his shame. He didn't care he was a psych patient, or that his little brother was a respected doctor that didn't understand he was ill. All that mattered was Matthew, who, unlike everyone else, was here for him. For God's sakes, Matthew was _holding _him.

Gilbert could hardly believe the best moment of his life happened in the emergency room.

.

"Dr. Beilschmidt, I need to see you."

Ludwig turned from the hospice nurse he was speaking to, Kiku, to see Matthew standing in the doorway. He remained straight-faced, but on the inside he screamed. First he had to tell Kiku that his terminal patient was only getting worse, even though he was well aware Heracles was hardly just a patient to him anymore, and now he had to deal with this. There was only so much emotional turmoil he could take in one shift.

"Is that so?" said Ludwig anyway. He looked away from Kiku and turned to Matthew, pretending not to notice that both of them looked to be in physical pain. "Did something happen?" Ludwig wasn't sure if he actually wanted that answered.

Matthew did not look like he was sure he wanted to answer. "Well…" He trailed off, glanced at Kiku, and said, "How about we take a quick walk, Dr. Beilschmidt?"

Alarm bells went off in Ludwig's head. He knew exactly what this was about, but if Matthew could not even tell him what happened in front of his nurse, it must be far worse than the disastrous image he already had in his head. At a loss of what else he could do, Ludwig just nodded swiftly and followed Matthew out of the room.

A million thoughts and questions swirled in Ludwig's mind, and he only made it a couple steps out of the break room before he lost the ability to contain himself. "Is it Gilbert?"

Matthew nodded, and Ludwig was less than surprised. There was no other reason why they would be speaking right then. But his nerves continued to fire, his palms continued to sweat, and his mind continued to compound possibility after possibility. "There was an incident with his roommate last night," said Matthew when they came to a halt, some deserted hallway between departments.

"Incident? What kind of incident?" Ludwig bit back the urge to ask _what did he do, _because somewhere, deep down, he knew that wasn't fair.

Matthew pursed his lips, his eyes already screaming apologies for what Ludwig already knew was beyond his control. "Gilbert was… beat up, for lack of a better term. He and Ivan never got along, and there was some sort of acceleration between them last night. I'm sure they both had some part in starting it, but Ivan is… stronger. A lot stronger."

Ludwig's blood ran cold, his skin went numb, and his hands began to shake. He tightened them into trembling fists. "What happened to Gilbert?"

"He was unconscious for awhile." Ludwig's eyes went wide, and Matthew quickly added, "Don't worry, he's doing just fine. He woke up with a moderate concussion and a few bruises, and that's the extent of it. I just thought you should know."

Ludwig cleared his throat. He felt some relief, but his mind was still spinning, his heart still pounding. "How does this kind of thing happen? Is there no one watching them?" He sounded almost accusatory, even though he didn't mean to.

"I'm sorry," said Matthew quickly, his eyes flashing wildly. "We have orderlies around the ward at all times, but sometimes things like this just… happen. The patients are not children, after all. We can't keep a constant eye on them. But, regardless, I apologize."

Ludwig held out a hand. "It is not your fault. It isn't anyone's fault, I'm sure." He let the sentence linger, almost tangible in the air. After a moment, he took a breath, pushed past his cowardice, and asked, "Am I able to see him?"

Matthew broke eye contact and looked down the hall. Ludwig followed his gaze, almost as if he expected Gilbert to waltz down it – unscathed, grinning, and halfway through some preposterous joke, just as he had always appeared to Ludwig… before. Ludwig was broken from his fantasy when Matthew spoke, slow and careful. "That wouldn't be advised."

"What? Why?"

Matthew fiddled with his flannel cuffs. It was strange that he wore flannel each day, Ludwig mused to himself, if only for a distraction. When Matthew looked back up, he stared at the wall behind Ludwig rather than meeting his eyes. "Gilbert has been through a lot the past couple of days. He doesn't need any more stress right now."

Ludwig felt his stomach twist. "You are saying seeing me would only upset him."

Matthew sighed, the look in his eyes oddly patronizing. "I'm afraid so. Actually, Ludwig, there's something I've been meaning to discuss with you for quite some time."

Ludwig felt as if someone had shoved a wet rag down his throat, so he just nodded, straight-faced as always.

"Well, when dealing with mental disorders-" Ludwig forced himself not to cringe, "-we have to watch out for triggers, which, as you probably know, are specific situations that set patients off. A trigger can be as simple as a word, or…" Matthew paused, and then looked pointedly at Ludwig, "…interacting with a specific person."

The implication did not take long to sink in. Ludwig only blinked, too shocked to even react. "I see," he said anyway. An unfamiliar string bit at the back of his eyes, but he ignored it. He suddenly wished this conversation would just end already.

"Of course, patients can be desensitized to triggers. A lot of the time we can get them to go away completely."

"I see," Ludwig said again. He did not feel relieved; he felt like a child being told nothing was wrong when, in fact, there was.

"Look, Ludwig… I think I need to be very blunt for a moment." Matthew cleared his throat, his hand finding its way back to his shirtsleeve, but his eyes remained firm. "You need to accept that Gilbert is ill, and you need to accept that his illness is legitimate. Nothing is going to get better if you don't." Matthew's tone was commanding, his words as strong as steel, and Ludwig was shocked by it, even as Matthew looked away and mumbled, "Sorry."

Ludwig was not sure what to say. He knew, somewhere beneath layers of pride and denial, that Matthew was right. Some part of him had always known. Known Gilbert was not just being difficult, known how hard he fought to hold himself together. But it was always easier to chalk 'The King' up to Gilbert's stubbornness or eccentricity than to admit his older brother – his childhood hero – was stuck with an incurable disease that tore him apart on a daily basis. A lot easier.

"I understand," said Ludwig after a long moment. Did he, really?

"Alright. Thank you," said Matthew as if Ludwig had done him a favor by acknowledging him. He smiled. "I know things are hard right now, but it will get better. I'm sure of it."

Ludwig wished he could believe Matthew's calm smile and pacifying words. He really, truly did. But, in reality, such reassurances were naught more than Band-Aids on bullet wounds. Ludwig simply nodded for the hundredth time. He then lifted his chin and looked above Matthew's head, maybe searching for a distraction, perhaps an escape. He looked down the hall and towards the doors, where he saw an elfin man bundled up in an oversized scarf despite the mild weather. Ludwig narrowed his eyes. Strange.

Matthew must have noticed his confusion, because he turned in the same direction Ludwig was staring in. Then he froze, sighed, and mumbled a quick, "We can speak more about this later," before rushing off.

Ludwig was left stunned. This hospital had turned to chaos, he decided, and there was little he could do besides sit back and watch the growing flames. Right then, he made a decision: he would leave Gilbert alone, at least for now. It was the best thing for him. For both of them.

Doubt nipped, unforgivingly, at the back of Ludwig's mind as he stood in the vacant hall. But it was a feeling he was getting used to, and he was growing more and more skilled at ignoring it.

Ludwig swallowed hard and started back to the break room, back to his stability, comfort, and safety. "Feliciano," he said once he got there, more of a plea than a greeting. He hoped it was enough. He was met with knowing smile, a hug, and a kiss to the cheek. It must have been.

At least one thing still made sense.

.

Stepping into Matthew's office made Gilbert feel like a veteran reentering a warzone. All the danger from the session a few days ago was gone – Ludwig was nowhere to be found, the sun shined brightly in the sky, Matthew was smiling and showed no signs of injury or fear – but Gilbert could not calm his hammering heart.

He kept his hands in his pockets and sat on the couch as gingerly as possible, as if the room was made of glass. "Hey, man."

"Good morning." Matthew smiled from his place behind the desk, but Gilbert could easily see the way his eye twitched in concern when he walked in. Gilbert knew he looked terrible. It was not until he left the emergency room and came back to the ward that he realized he had two black eyes, fingerprint bruises on his neck, and, judging by the splint, a broken nose. He didn't know what Ivan had done to him, and he was certain he didn't actually want to know.

Gilbert brought his hands to his face and patted his cheeks, ignoring the slight sting of pain. "Like the new look?"

"Oh, I love it." Matthew smiled a bit easier, leaned a bit more naturally against his chair. "So, you're feeling better? No new pain?"

"Nah. The doctor said this concussion should be better in no time." Gilbert chose to omit the fact that his doctor had ended up being, of course, Elizabeta, and that had been a bit less than comfortable. Oh well. At least he was out now. And in all honestly, those couple of days hadn't even been that bad, since… "Hey, thanks for sticking by me while I was in there."

"Not a problem," said Matthew. "I had to make sure you were alright."

Gilbert fought the urge to say that if that was Matthew's only goal, what he had actually done was far beyond overkill. Matthew must have sat with Gilbert for hours. In those hours of pain killer induced haze and confusion, they talked about everything. About Matthew's hockey career that had lasted through high school. About Alfred's football career that had always taken priority, and still was. About how Matthew always felt overshadowed by him. About Gilbert's music, his books, and once, when the medication had him floating above inhibition, how he felt the same about Ludwig. But he'd rather not think about that now.

"I hate to ask this right now," Matthew continued, knocking Gilbert from his thoughts, "but can you push up your sleeves, please?"

Gilbert didn't hesitate this time. He rolled his sleeves to his elbows, unaffected, and lifted his arms. The scars and scabs were still there, but nothing new. "Not much time to scratch when you're unconscious."

Matthew did not laugh or smile, as Gilbert had hoped he would. "Every little bit helps," he said, although he did not look convinced of his words. "I just hate that they're open like that. None of the nurses ever bandaged your arms?"

Gilbert shrugged. "No one ever noticed, I guess." In reality, no nurse or orderly had ever gotten on him about his scratching because Gilbert went to ridiculous lengths to hide it. He already had enough of a stigma in this place. He hardly needed a label like 'self harm risk' thrown on top of DID and god knows what else.

Matthew let out a disapproving hum. "I'm not surprised, we're inexcusably understaffed half the time." He paused, his unmoving, concerned gaze on Gilbert beginning to make him uncomfortable. "Actually, that's alright. They always say if you want something done right, do it yourself, don't they?"

"Huh?"

"Sit tight." Matthew abruptly stood. "I'm going to get some gauze tape."

Gilbert folded his arms over his chest, his face warming. "What? Oh, man, really, that's okay. Really! I'm fine."

"Gilbert…Gil." Matthew paused at the doorway and tilted his head, his smile gentle but not patronizing. "Let me take care of you."

And then Gilbert knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he had absolutely no choice. "'Kay, awesome," he mumbled.

Matthew returned not five minutes later, small white case in hand. He sat down on the sofa, barely half a foot separating him and Gilbert, and Gilbert tried, with all the energy left in him after this whirlwind week, not to flush as he held out his ruined arms. Matthew did not really react to seeing the wounds up close, save for a click of the tongue and a nearly inaudible whisper. "Oh, Gil…"

"Yeah, I know. Naughty naughty. You can skip the lecture."

Matthew let out a short laugh that was closer to a sigh. "Lecturing has never been something I was very good at." He picked up the white case and flipped it open, fishing out a white roll of bandages. "I just want to see this issue resolved, for your sake."

Gilbert shrugged. "Just a habit, I guess."

"I think it goes a little beyond that." Matthew kept his eyes downcast as he began his first-aid. He seemed to know what he was doing. "With self harm," Gilbert cringed internally at the term, "as well as most mental illnesses," again, cringe, "what physiatrists will often try and identify are something called triggers. Do you know what a trigger is?"

"Sound pretty self explanatory," said Gilbert. "Something that makes whatever you're dealing with worse, right? Sets it off?"

Matthew smiled, much like a kindergarten teacher would. Gilbert half-expected him to press a gold star to his forehead. "Exactly," he said instead. "So, today, I thought we could try and find out what that means for you."

"Ah." Well, that hardly sounded fun. But with Matthew six inches in front of him, holding his arms, Gilbert did not really have it in him to protest. "Alright."

"Anything you can think of?"

One thing came to Gilbert's mind immediately, but it felt too petty, too downright ridiculous to actually vocalize. But Matthew had seen and heard just about everything, he reminded himself. No sense in hiding things now. "One thing," he said, barely above a mumble. "I hate when people call me… German. Instead of Prussian. It's really stupid, I know, but…"

"It's not stupid. Nothing you say here is stupid," said Matthew immediately. Gilbert felt the vice grip on his lungs loosen. "Can I ask what exactly that word triggers? Would it be scratching or a transition?"

"First scratching, then the transition, usually," said Gilbert, honestly shocked how easily the words were coming. "Ivan figured that out awhile ago, unfortunately."

Gilbert could have sworn he saw Matthew glare for a second. But maybe he imagined that. "I need to talk to him again later," he said under his breath. "Anyway, um… is there a reason you have an issue with that word?"

"Uh, well…" Again, Gilbert was hesitant. Then he remembered Matthew's words: _Nothing you say here is stupid…_ Gilbert took a breath, and continued. "When me and Lud were young, we were always known as 'the German kids,' because, ya know, we were a couple of foreigners in America. When I found out I had Prussian blood in me, I ran with it. It gave me my own identity."

"And when someone calls you German now…" Matthew prompted.

"It lumps me back in with him again," Gilbert answered easily, then blinked against his own response. He had never been able to make that connection on his own. Now, it felt as natural as breathing. Unsure what else he could do, he kept going. "Ludwig was always the smart one. He was the one our _Opa _liked best. And he's always known that. Damn, does he know it."

Matthew nodded along. "Would you say you're jealous of him?"

Gilbert paused to consider it, and then slowly shook his head. "Maybe not jealous. It's not like I want to be a surgeon or anything. But, hell, I always protected the kid when we were younger. I just wish…" Gilbert felt his face warm, suddenly unsure if he should keep going. He had said so much already. But Matthew just smiled encouragingly, and Gilbert found it in him to mumble. "I just wish… he'd… do the same for me once in a while. Instead of shunning me." He exhaled sharply. "Now, _that _was lame."

"Hardly," said Matthew as he taped down the wrapping on Gilbert's right arm. "I don't see why you would call that lame, Gil. It's just about the most normal thing you could want."

Gilbert nodded, trying to let the words sink in, trying to believe them, trying to think of a response. But he couldn't. His mind was clouded, and he found himself bouncing his leg, biting his lip. He had a sudden urge to grab his arms, and then realized he couldn't. Once he realized what was going on, he could only say, "Shit…"

"Gilbert?" Matthew looked up. "Gilbert, what's wrong?"

Gilbert just shook his head, as if the action would clear the sparks in his vision. It only made him dizzier. Why this, why now…

"Stay with me, Gil. Breathe." Matthew abruptly dropped Gilbert's half-bandaged left arm and took his hands. Gilbert clung to the touch, though he could not really feel it. "You are in control. You're safe. I'm here with you."

Slowly, Gilbert forced himself to nod. He felt numb, but he willed himself to hear Matthew's words, to understand them, to mentally repeat them over and over and he was able to feel Matthew's hands. He squeezed them once. It felt like clawing his way out of quicksand.

"There you go," said Matthew airily. "Can you speak?"

A flash of fog. A spark of light. A slow, careful, cleansing breath. Gilbert was treading at the surface, seconds from either breaking through it or sinking down to his watery grave. But Matthew was holding onto him, pulling him up, giving him air, and finally… "Yeah." Gilbert felt a rush of relief at the sound of his own voice. "Yeah, I can."

"Alright. Good." Matthew sounded almost more relived than Gilbert.

Gilbert brought the air back into his lungs with a slow breath, his eyes fluttering open, and strangely enough, a spark of pride rising in his chest. The King had lost. For once, Gilbert had won. When he smiled, it was genuine. "Close one," he said, his voice hoarse but not flat.

"You nearly transitioned," said Matthew quietly. It was not even a question. Gilbert just nodded. "But you didn't."

"Guess not," said Gilbert, then realizing that Matthew was still holding his hands. He made no effort to move away, and neither did Matthew, as if an unspoken agreement had been reached. His head spun for an entirely different – and far more pleasant – reason.

"Gil, this is a huge improvement!" Matthew smiled manically, his eyes even more breathtaking as they lit up behind his glasses. "I'm so proud of you!"

Gilbert was rendered speechless, genuinely confused for a second. He could not remember the last time someone had said _that _to him. Matthew was proud of him… why? "Hey, that asshole doesn't have control over me," he said anyway, perhaps only to convince himself.

"Not so much anymore, it seems." Matthew was still smiling, and Gilbert was beginning to believe he would never stop. Not that he wanted him to. "Do you know what this means?"

"Uh…" Gilbert blinked, unsure exactly what to make of that. "Can't say I do. What does that mean?"

"A few things. But for the most part, Gil…" Matthew took one of Gilbert's hands in both of his then held it between them, his touch soft and warm and comfortable. "It means you're getting better."

* * *

_To be continued..._

* * *

_Don't worry, you'll get to hear Alfred and Arthur's side of the story very, very soon. :)_


	10. Chapter 10

It was just another day.

Nothing ever changed in this place, Gilbert decided somewhere around the time fall set in. Orange, red, and yellow leaves fell from the trees and swirled in the wind on the other side on the windows, yet everything felt as grey as month old snow.

Maybe that was because the weather was the only thing that was ever any different. Day in, day out, everything in the hospital was painfully, undyingly the same. Even when disaster struck, it seemed things always snapped right back into the same tired routine just as quickly as it fell out of it. Being here was like being a hamster stuck on a wheel – working hard but always going in circles, never actually getting anywhere.

That was all Gilbert could think as he sat in the same chair, surrounded by the same men, listening to the same stories he'd heard in this same situation more times than he could physically count. He was really sick of group therapy. Sick of Ivan smiling, sick of Arthur scowling, sick of Mathias alternating between the two. If Gilbert was truly getting better, he had to wonder why he was still being subjected to the same old shit. It certainly wasn't making him _feel_ any better.

If he was grateful for one thing that never changed, it was Matthew's soft voice. "Well, I think today was successful," he said with an encouraging smile. Gilbert wondered if that was at all true. After all, it wasn't like he had been paying attention. "Before I let you guys go, I'd like to ask one thing of you."

Arthur immediately groaned even though nothing had been asked of him yet. Just like everything else, it was to be expected. However, Gilbert could not fight the sneaking suspicion that Arthur seemed… different, somehow. Over the past few days, instead of just looking grumpy, he seemed plain miserable – walking around like it hurt, always looking down, snapping at anyone who looked up him, mumbling short, faint strings of curses under his breath that sounded almost like suppressed sobs. He did not even have the energy to chant aimlessly anymore. It was as if someone had torn the man's heart out.

But Gilbert just looked away, chalked it up to insanity, and listened as Matthew continued to speak.

"I promise you, it's not that bad. All I ask in that you respond to the prompt I'm about to give you in your journals." Matthew looked into his lap, ran his finger across the paper in front of him, and read the words aloud. "If you could have one thing in the world, what would it be and why?"

Gilbert fought back a chuckle when he wondered how the men around him would answer that question. For Mathias, it would probably be an obscene amount of alcohol, or perhaps a battle-axe. Arthur would probably say something about the unicorn he was always going on about – or at least he used to, now that Gilbert thought about it. Ivan would undoubtedly answer 'Yao.'

And then, as suddenly and violently as being attacked by a wild bear, Gilbert knew what his answer was.

He bolted from his chair and tore from the circle fast enough to earn a few incredulous stares, but Gilbert barely even noticed. There was nothing in his head except the words rattling around in it, deafeningly loud and in desperate, aching need of being put onto paper.

He made the decision before he even understood it. It was a terrible idea, a small voice in his head insisted as he flipped to a clean page, but a much louder, more convincing one screamed that it was what he needed to do. So Gilbert wrote. He wrote until the page was filled, his fingers were cramping, and his mind was clear. When he finished, he felt… lighter.

Gilbert tucked the journal under his arm, practically ran down the hall, and threw it on Matthew's desk before he could regret it. It was now or never. He doubted he wrote anything that Matthew did not already know, but hey, maybe something would finally be different around here.

.

Matthew knew what was happening, right away, before he read the first word or even opened the tattered notebook he knew was Gilbert's.

He was not sure exactly how he knew. Perhaps it was simply his therapist's intuition; perhaps his emotional intelligence was exceptionally high, or maybe, just maybe… Matthew was just getting his hopes up. But that was hardly wanted to think about that. So, when Matthew found it in him to pick up the journal he saw sitting on his desk and read the dog-eared page, all he could do was pretend he _didn't _know exactly what he would find in it.

_Jeez, Mattie, these prompts are getting more pretentious by the day. I thought you said we weren't in a Lifetime movie? _

Matthew had to smile at that. He supposed the prompts he threw out every couple of days could get a little silly, but at this point, he was willing to try just about anything to get his patients to open up. It wasn't working all that well so far, but it might one day. Maybe today was that day. He kept reading.

_Next thing I know you'll be asking me if I was a fruit, what kind of fruit I would be? Well, to save everyone some time, I would be a dragon fruit. Don't ask why. It just sounds cool. But that wasn't the prompt today. You asked what I want most in the world, right? Something like that. _

As Matthew's laughter faded, he had to fight the urge to hold his breath. Gilbert's entries always had a tendency to do that to him – he was always laughing one moment, breathless the next. It wasn't much different than when he saw him in person.

_Alright, prepare yourself, because my answer is undoubtedly going to be the cheesiest and most cliché thing you've ever heard in your life. If I could have anything in the world, it would be you, Matthew. That's right, I said it. _

Matthew had at least partially expected that answer, but that did not stop him from letting out a sharp gasp and bringing his fingers shakily, involuntarily to his mouth. He should have felt mildly inconvenienced by this, perhaps even downright disturbed. But he didn't. Matthew's face was flushed, his pulse fast, and in spite of himself, he was smiling. He forced it away before continuing.

_Now, that's not because I want to lock you in my basement and use you for psych facts or anything. That would just be creepy. _

Another laugh. Matthew actually had to bite down on his tongue to keep from losing it completely, since dissolving into giggles alone in his office wouldn't exactly help anyone take him seriously. He fought back spurts of laughter as he read the next few lines… before the urge disappeared completely.

_When I say I 'want' you more than anything, what I mean is… shit, I'm awful with words. I might as well just come out and say it. At the risk of sounding like a complete sap, the reason I'm writing this is because I'm so, so in love with you. _

Laughter died. Suddenly, nothing mattered but the words on this page. The room could have burst into flames and Matthew wouldn't have noticed. If a patient were having a hysterical fit right outside his door, he would not have even heard them. Never, not once in his entire life, had Matthew had a single sentence hit so hard it left him feeling dizzy. Now, the room was spinning like a top. The page in front of him was doing the same.

_God knows you're smart enough to have figured this out already, but I wanted to be sure you knew. I know, I know, certain boundaries can't be crossed or whatever. I'm not even really sure what I'm trying to gain with this. I guess I just needed to say it, Matthew. I just needed to say it once._

Really, if Matthew was going to be completely honest with himself, he _had _known. He had known ever since Fritz had outright told him about Gilbert's feelings that one disastrous day of family therapy. Gilbert telling him he was 'too important to him' not long after had not helped his suspicions, either. But actually reading those words, those blunt, simple words that he could not overthink into meaning something else, was different. Very different.

There was only about a paragraph left in the entry, but Matthew must have taken five minutes to get through it.

_Look, I'm not going to get all sentimental on you. I don't want to say it and you don't want to hear it. All I'll say is this – you're more important to me than anyone I've ever met in my goddamn life, and I don't know what I would do without you. That must mean something. How you feel is your business, and I'm not looking for an answer. All I'm saying is I think there's something here, and both of us can probably see it._

_So yeah, that just happened. Cya._

_-Gil_

Matthew's hands shook as he flipped the journal closed. _Transference, _he told himself time and time again, _this is only transference. Nothing to worry about. _But the more he told himself that, the more ridiculous and untrue it ended up sounding. This was different from the times a patient had randomly announced they wanted to sleep with him, or confessed their undying love for him five minutes into their second session. Gilbert's confession was more honest, more _real, _than any of those instances… perhaps even more so than anything _anyone _had ever told him.

"No," Matthew mumbled to himself, removing his glasses to rub his temples. He could not afford to think this way. A true professional would have passed off Gilbert's case at the first sign of this, but… Matthew just didn't want to, dammit. That was the only reason. For once in his career, he was completely ignoring what was professional, what was moral, because his personal feelings were just too strong. He couldn't run from them anymore.

And suddenly, almost painfully, Matthew admitted to himself that he might just return every sentiment written in the journal.

He tried to deny it for the millionth time and failed. There was a sick, panicked feeling in his stomach now. Matthew knew he could not allow this to go any farther. It would simply be wrong. But he could not deny that he had spent entirely too much time worrying about transference, when in reality he should have been concerned about something else entirely.

_Counter_transference.

.

Gilbert had done plenty of stupid things in his lifetime, but with each second that passed, he became more and more convinced that giving Matthew that journal was right up there with the stupidest. He glanced at the clock in the commons and noted less than an hour had passed, but it felt like much longer – long enough to regret just about everything he had ever done, at least.

People always told Gilbert he was impulsive. He was only starting to believe that now. Why, _why _had he given Matthew that journal entry? Why had he written it in the first place? He didn't have an answer for that. It wasn't as if he had anything to gain by spilling his insignificant, honestly immature feelings like a middle-schooler on Valentine's Day. Matthew probably already knew. It wasn't as if Gilbert had gone to any great lengths to hide it. If this whole ordeal had accomplished anything at all, it was probably driving an even bigger wedge between the two of them.

So, Gilbert paced. He walked around the commons so fervently he was half inclined to believe he would wear out the carpet. At least he didn't draw that much attention to himself because, in the grand scheme of things, his wandering was hardly the strangest thing going on at the moment. Arthur had spent the past two hours staring out the window with vapid, unseeing eyes. Gilbert was fairly certain Ivan hadn't so much as left his room in several days. Mathias was running up and down the halls again, and an orderly was trying and failing to stop him.

Gilbert was about halfway through his umpteenth lap around the couches when he was abruptly stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He stopped, turned, and nearly choked on his own spit when he saw Matthew in front of him.

"Hello," said Matthew with that same damn smile, as if everything was normal and Gilbert had not told him anything at all. "You seem rather hyper this afternoon."

Gilbert could hardly believe he didn't know why that was. "It's just one of those days, I guess," he said with a dismissive shrug. "I have a lot of, uh, energy."

"Oh." Matthew almost laughed. Gilbert felt his face warm, adverted his eyes, and noticed Matthew had a drawstring bag hanging off his shoulder, for some reason. He did not lift his eyes even when he continued to speak. "Well, if you have so much energy, would you like to take a walk with me?"

Gilbert looked up sharply. "Walk?" he repeated. He immediately felt like a dog, or something, and looked away again. "Can we do that?"

"Sure we can. It's just around the outside grounds, anyway."

"Like, alone?"

"Mm-hmm." Matthew paused, tilted his head. "Do you not want to?"

"No!" Gilbert blurted immediately, and then rushed into a stuttering cover-up. "I mean, uh, no, I wouldn't, uh…" He cleared his throat as Matthew looked on in amusement. "Yes, I want to."

"Awesome." Matthew then drew his brows together and gave another short laugh, as if to catch himself. "Looks like I've picked up one of your idiosyncrasies, huh? Okay, follow me."

Gilbert just nodded dumbly and followed along behind him, ignoring the fluttering feeling overtaking his chest.

.

The garden outside the hospital was actually a lot more intricate than Gilbert had previously realized. Flowers of all colors and kinds were arranged in careful rows, stretching up to meet the sunlight, flooding the beds of soil and coming up to hug the edge of the grey stone path. If he could ignore the fact that Ivan was the one to put it together, he could even say it was beautiful.

Even if that was true, Gilbert ended up barely glancing at the flowers. Somehow, none of it compared to Matthew walking beside him, blond curls catching the wind, light reflecting off his glasses as he craned his neck to look up at the clouds.

"Ivan did a nice job with this," said Matthew eventually, walking at a leisurely pace. "I can see why he spends so much time here."

"Not lately. I never see him anymore," Gilbert said and then, before he could stop himself, added, "So, he hasn't killed anyone yet?"

Matthew stopped walking for a moment, nearly scoffed, and kept going. "No. You two really hate each other, don't you?"

Gilbert actually did scoff. "He almost murdered me!"

"Okay, but even before that." Matthew shrugged. "I've always had the feeling you were at each other's throats from the moment you met."

Well, he certainly wasn't wrong. "You could say that." Gilbert wasn't thrilled about discussing Ivan right now, and he certainly didn't want to get into detail about their many battles, but there had been a question sitting on his shoulders for some time now and he figured it was now or never. "Let me ask you something. What's up with him and that one guy? Yao, or something."

"Oh." Matthew immediately tensed, his pace slowing and his eyes fixing on some faraway spot. "To be completely honest, I'm not sure even I know the answer to that anymore."

Gilbert wrinkled his nose. "Yeah?"

Matthew nodded reluctantly. "Unfortunately. I really shouldn't disclose a whole lot, but I can tell you this started as somewhat of a… business deal, but through some twist of fate things wound up snowballing into something else entirely."

Gilbert was practically deaf to all but two words: business deal. "So I was right," he said under his breath.

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothing," said Gilbert quickly. "Anyway, wow, that's… something. Between him and Arthur, I'm starting to think this place is just a really weird matchmaking factory."

An immediate, heavy silence fell over the two of them, and it was not until then that Gilbert realized that might have not been the best thing to say. He glanced quickly at Matthew only to find him staring back, and they both looked away immediately. It was not until a handful of minutes later, when they had moved away from the garden and made their way to a small, vacant sidewalk around the side of the building, that Matthew blinked away his apprehension and spoke again.

"Look, Gil…" He trailed off, looked away again. Gilbert knew exactly what was coming. It wasn't as if they could avoid it forever. "About your journal. I…"

Gilbert immediately waved his hands, unwilling to hear this, unwilling to see Matthew so uncomfortable over something he had caused. "No, really, forget it. It was really fucking stupid of me."

Matthew looked up, his eyes suddenly firm and without confliction. "It wasn't stupid."

A faint swell of frustrating hope rose up Gilbert's throat like bile. He could not quite force it down this time, so he bit down on his lip and nodded.

"I can't…" Matthew did not finish his sentence, as if unsure if he should continue. The heavy sigh he let out suggested he was simply unwilling to. Gilbert stayed silent, and it felt as if an hour had passed before Matthew delivered the quiet, slightly shaky words. "I can't be your boyfriend."

Melancholy and subdued acceptance sat where perhaps heartbreak and despair belonged. Really, Gilbert had not expected anything better. If anything, he was pleasantly surprised to not be shunned, or even laughed at. Matthew really was too damn _decent _for what he deserved. "I figured," he said as flippantly as possible.

"Here's the thing." Matthew looked up and into the sky, breathed out, and began to smile again. "I obviously cannot become involved with a patient like that. But in all honestly, Gilbert, I don't think I've ever enjoyed having a patient as much as I've enjoyed having you. So, I would love to be your best friend."

"Best friend?" Gilbert could not contain the wide, joyous grin spreading across his lips. It was not exactly what he wanted, but exactly what he wanted was a fingernail's width from impossible, and this was _certainly_ better than nothing. Almost laughing, feeling weightless, he said, "What is this, kindergarten?"

When Matthew smiled too, the tension was gone. "Oh, stop it. You know what I meant."

"Whatever, man." Gilbert quirked an eyebrow, cocked his hip, and lifted a hand to wag his finger teasingly. "Hey, are therapists supposed to play favorites with their patients?"

"No, not at all," Matthew admitted. "But therapists aren't supposed to pay random men to talk to one of their patients and allow their brother to fool around with another one, either. And they probably aren't supposed to do this."

Gilbert wasn't sure what to expect from that. At least part of him must have been waiting for some grand, world-altering gesture, because his heart leapt to his throat, and he froze. When Matthew simply slid the forgotten bag off his shoulders and tossed it to him, Gilbert was strangely disappointed.

He just stared. "Uh…"

Matthew nodded, as if to urge him on. "Open it."

Gilbert did as he was told. He pulled the drawstrings, looked inside, and immediately recognized the smooth black case resting in it. "Oh," he breathed. Whatever he had been expecting, he was fairly sure this was not it.

"I thought it would be a nice change, considering." Matthew stepped off the path and into the grass, beneath the shade of a large oak tree. "I know we discussed it awhile back. Have you had any chance to play at all?"

Memory hit. As far as Gilbert knew, Matthew had no idea about the strange night with Ivan and the others by the telephone. He wasn't sure he wanted him to know, either. Gilbert still had questions about it himself. He shook his head. "Nope."

"Do you want to?"

Gilbert stepped off into the grass as well, smiling slyly. "This is just an excuse to hear me play, isn't it?"

Matthew shrugged. "That may have had something to do with it."

"Of course. You therapists are all the same, using your poor, unassuming patients for music and gardening," Gilbert laughed. Really, he was quite sure there was not one therapist – or person in general – exactly like Matthew anywhere in the world.

"Oh, I know. Awful, all of us." Matthew lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged in the grass. Gilbert had not actually answered, but more often than not, it seemed they could reach an understanding without saying a word.

Gilbert sat across from him, snapped the case open, and took a moment to marvel at the way the silver flute caught the sunlight before beginning to play.

At first it felt strange. Gilbert could not shake the fact that Matthew was watching him, unblinking eyes glinting with fascination, as he fumbled for a song to play. It was definitely more nerve wracking than playing a random string of notes from a man he couldn't stand in the wee hours of the morning. This time, he felt a crushing need to play better than he ever had in his life.

Gilbert did not set off to play anything specifically. But Matthew was on his mind as he started, and the song – one he had known for several years – ended up being instinctual. He was surprised how quickly he remembered the notes, even if he could not remember the title. It just felt right, somehow. Within seconds, he did not have to think about it. So he played, and played, his eyes squeezed shut and his pulsing racing, until he simply did not have the breath to continue.

Gilbert lowered the flute. The world was deadly silent again, save for the occasional rustle of leaves above them. He looked up, almost absurdly nervous, to see Matthew covering his mouth with both his hands.

A long moment passed before Matthew said a word. "Wow." It was scarcely more than a breath, barely audible through his fingers. "Gilbert… that was absolutely beautiful."

Gilbert ripped up a handful of grass, let it drop. "Really, it's no huge thing-"

"What song was that?" asked Matthew suddenly, interrupting. He lifted his hands from his mouth and used the heels of his hands to wipe his eyes – only then did Gilbert realize they were bleary. "Wait, I think I know, was it…" A pause. Matthew sniffed, and Gilbert's stomach did a backflip. "You raise me up?"

Gilbert, having zoned up, snapped back to attention. His heart skipped a hard beat. "Huh?"

"You raise me up. You know, the song?"

Gilbert realized, as his face went up in flames, that that was in fact been what he had been playing. Wasn't that song about God? If he could have picked something cheesier, it was beyond him. He prayed Matthew did not know the lyrics. "Oh. I guess it was."

"Well, I'm astounded. Really." Matthew smiled again, but this time, he looked almost sad. A few new tears sprung to his eyes, which he quickly wiped away. His lip quivered for a moment, and his voice wavered as he said, "I'm sorry, I'm a mess…"

Slowly, Gilbert came to the first confusing, and then pained realization that Matthew's reaction was not entirely about the music. Immediately after, he realized something that troubled him even more – Matthew had never actually said his feelings were not returned.

* * *

_To be continued..._

* * *

**_Author's Note: What Gilbert was playing can be found here: /watch?v=kHvjpg9JPnA_**

**_I suggest you all look up the lyrics to "You Raise Me Up," too!_**


	11. Chapter 11

From the second he met him, Gilbert knew that Matthew was smart. He was the smartest person he knew, really, not to mention undoubtedly the sanest. But what he had just said to Gilbert stuck him as nothing less than senseless at best and downright crazy at worst.

"Are you serious?" asked Gilbert, perhaps a bit snippier than he intended. "Why would we do that?"

"Gil, if you would just listen for a moment…"

"I mean, that's like installing a security system and then opening the door for the robbers." Maybe it was not quite the same thing, but Gilbert was too shocked and incredulous to come up with a decent analogy. Sue him. "No, wait, I got it. It's like escaping a shark and then jumping back in the water covered in blood."

Matthew parted his lips to speak, paused, and gave a short laugh. "As amusing as that is, I really don't believe it's the same thing."

"You think shark attacks are funny?" Without waiting for an answer, Gilbert continued, "You're asking me to force a transition, Matt. Forgive me for thinking it sounds, well, for lack of a better term, batshit crazy."

"It sounds rather counterintuitive, I know." Gilbert could think of about a dozen far more colorful words to describe it, but he kept quiet as Matthew tried to explain from behind his desk. "The thing is, with DID, we aim for something called integration. That's when all of a patient's identities come together as one. I don't think we've reached that point with you yet, even if we haven't seen Fritz in… how long has it been?"

Gilbert tried to think. There had been that time during family therapy, was that the last time? No… "Oh." Gilbert remembered all at once – shaking under Ivan's hold, fighting desperately for control, only to watch everything turn white and come back to himself with hands around his neck seconds before all turned black. A shutter tingled across his skin before he spoke. "The last time was the day I got my concussion."

"That's right," said Matthew softly. He blinked a few times. "So it's been a couple weeks?"

"Guess so," said Gilbert, slightly shocked. He couldn't remember the last time Fritz went so long without making an appearance.

"Anyway, I'd like to say that's a good thing, but it worries me." Matthew looked away from Gilbert and towards the window, where a gust of wind sent a spiral of brown leaves across the sky. "I want to know what he's up to, really. That's honestly all there is to it."

Gilbert had caught himself wondering about that a few times, too. Still, there was something much, much different about simply inviting The King to take over. Anticipating the transition was worse than it actually happening. Baiting it to occur was akin to loading a gun, pressing it to his temple, and just _waiting…_ Gilbert felt a chill shoot up his spine.

Maybe it was the heat of the moment, but Gilbert found himself saying something he never would have a couple months ago. "I'm scared, Matthew."

"And that's completely valid," said Matthew, his smile gentle but not patronizing. "But I can assure you it will be fine."

"What if he hurts you again?" Gilbert could think of nothing worse.

"Then I'll handle it. If it's really out of hand, I'll call for an orderly." Matthew must have noticed the way Gilbert tensed, the way his face went blank with panic, because he continued in an even softer voice. "I'm a lot more capable than you think I am, you know."

"It's not that," said Gilbert. "It's just…" _I want you to be safe; _he stopped himself from saying. If Gilbert were to be completely truthful, no matter how ridiculous it was, if it was up to him Matthew would not even _have _this job. He would be… a kindergarten teacher, or something. Something where the risk was at a minimum and he didn't have to worry about being mauled by sociopaths. "I just don't want anything bad to happen," Gilbert finally finished.

"It won't," Matthew assured him. Gilbert forced himself to believe that. "So, do you think you're ready?"

Gilbert's heart nearly stopped. "You want to do this _now?_"

"I don't see any sense in putting it off."

Gilbert could not deny that, logistically. He would probably drive himself ballistic if he had any time at all to think about this. "How are we going to do this, exactly?" he asked, managing a slight grin. "Are you just going to chant 'German, German, German,' at me until I lose it?"

Matthew giggled. "I don't believe that would work."

"Probably not." Gilbert knew why that was, even though neither of them would say it – Matthew could say anything in the world to him, but it would not do anything, because Gilbert would know in his heart of hearts that he didn't mean it. "Oh, oh! I got it!" exclaimed Gilbert, throwing his hand in the air like a schoolboy. "Why don't you bring Ivan in here? _That _would do it."

"No!" said Matthew immediately, half laughing, half gasping. "We're trying to trigger a transition, Gil. Not the apocalypse."

If anyone else had made that joke, Gilbert would have had to restrain himself from punching them in the face. Now he was just laughing again. "Fair enough," he said. "How will it work, then?"

"Well…" Matthew trailed off, as if unsure how to continue. "I think it would be beneficial for you to do it yourself. You would think yourself into it, really. It's kind of like meditation, expect instead of calming you down, it aims to rile you up."

"Oh." How fun. It looked like Gilbert was going to be shooting _himself _in the head, then. He couldn't decide if that was better or worse than something else doing it. Unwilling to think about this for a second longer, he clapped once, sat up straight, and spoke determinately. "Let's get it over with."

Matthew smiled again. That wouldn't help, Gilbert mused to himself. "Alright, excellent. I'm going to need you to close your eyes and follow my voice."

So, for God knows how long, Gilbert did exactly that. Matthew fed him a series of mental prompts, and Gilbert kept his eyes squeezed shut and tried to withdrawal into his own mind. _Think of a time you felt vulnerable, _Matthew would say, the softness of his voice a bit distracting, _try to recreate that feeling. _He was made to think about Ludwig, about his grandfather, about Ivan. It made Gilbert a bit uncomfortable, but not dizzy or mind-numbingly panicked. Actually, the whole process was… strangely intimate, in a way.

The word 'intimate' stuck in Gilbert's mind moments before he was ready to say this wasn't working. Playing a song for Matthew had been pretty intimate, he thought, even if it had been right outside the hospital. It wasn't as if he would ever be that close to him anywhere else.

Gilbert allowed that idea to sit in his mind, and the more he thought about it, the fuzzier Matthew's words became, the number his body felt, and the whiter his world got. At that point, he didn't even want to fight it.

_Click. _

The moment Matthew saw Gilbert's eyes open with the force of two magnets flying apart, his eyes too red and moving too quickly, he knew Gilbert was no longer there at all. Matthew wrapped his hands around the edge of his desk to steady himself, forcing the air back into his lungs. It had worked. Now he had to deal with the aftermath.

"Fritz," said Matthew evenly, "you're back."

"Miss me?" The King crossed his arms behind his head and stretched his legs out in front of him. "I'm guessing you did, since you basically forced me here. That's pretty rude, you know."

"Forgive me," said Matthew flatly. "Why the reluctance? When Gilbert first checked in, you were out every opportunity you had."

The King scoffed. "What, a guy can't rest?"

Matthew sucked his lips against his teeth. He had known getting any kind of cooperation out of him would be difficult, and he had resigned to the fact that this would be a long, frustrating process. "That seems a bit out of character."

"Well, sue me." The King regarded Matthew with a raised eyebrow, a grin slowly spreading across his face. Matthew felt a chill shudder up his spine. That grin was nothing like Gilbert's. It was the same pale lips, the same glinting white teeth, but there was something behind it that Matthew could spot from across the room. "Now, what's the reason you wanted me here, Princess? I thought you hated me."

"I never said that," said Matthew a little too quickly, a little too frantically. He cleared his throat. "I want to talk to you."

"Oh, joy." The King rolled his eyes. "You pulled me out for your therapy crap?"

"Not… exactly." Matthew was well aware he had to use a good bit of tact here. One wrong move, and this would end in disaster. Again. "I just have a few questions."

"Whatever," said The King in an overly exasperated sigh. "Let's just get it over with, okay? My time is important to me."

Matthew fought the urge to say he wasn't thrilled about this, either, and used every bit of will he had to maintain a neutral expression. "Okay. Well, you remember when you were last out, right?"

The King paused for a moment, then grinned again. Matthew felt his stomach turn. That disgusting grin. "Oh, absolutely. I fought the Russian. Is he crippled or something now?"

Matthew decided not to tell him how the fight actually ended, for his own sake. "Well, anyway. Why did you take over for Gilbert that day? If you hate him so much, I would think you'd be fine with letting him get beat up."

There was a long pause where perhaps an immediate response belonged. The King glared. "It's my body, too. I'm not about to be paralyzed because that pussy can't fight his own battles." He laughed then, and just like his grin, it should have been the same as Gilbert's but wasn't. However, it sounded just as forced.

Matthew was not sure what to do. He had observed more than enough to assume quite a few things, but he had no idea how to vocalize any of it, and he wasn't even sure if he should. He tried anyway. "You took over when Ludwig was here, too, when Gilbert was clearly upset and didn't want to be around. It seems you get him out of more unpleasant situations than you put him into."

The glare faded to a blank stare. "I told you Ludwig was just an obstacle that day." Each word was suspiciously careful, and Matthew was not entirely sure if he believed him.

It was time to stop beating around the bush. Matthew took a breath and spoke. "You know, Fritz," he said slowly, leaning forward the slightest bit. He summoned an authoritative tone he was just barely capable of. "Sometimes I think you care about Gilbert just a little more than you let on."

The King bolted up from his seat, and Matthew nigh jumped out of his skin. "And what makes you think that?" His tone was unreadable.

Matthew refused to allow his resolve to slip, no matter how fast his pulse was or how difficult it was getting to breathe. He sat still as stone with his hands on his knees.

"Just an observation," he said casually. "Things have calmed down quite a bit lately. You don't seem too bent on changing that." What he really meant was The King seemed to be slowly but surely losing the power he once had. The whole reason for bringing him out was to see if that hypothesis was at all true, and as of this second, it almost seemed that way. Matthew wasn't about to say any of that, though. He didn't have a death wish.

"You're not the only one who can 'observe' shit, you know." The King waltzed up to Matthew's desk and laid his hands on the surface. It was a sickeningly familiar image. "You know, I don't think we ever finished our last conversation. I don't think you have any business starting a new one."

Matthew tried to swallow, but his throat felt as dry as a desert. "What are you going to do, hit me again?"

"Nah. You're not worth the energy." The King openly sneered at Matthew's slight, unconscious glare. "I'm going to speak in a language you'll understand. Since we got here, I've 'observed' that you treat Gilbert way too nice."

"You've said that before." And Matthew wondered why it mattered so much.

"Yeah, and you never answered my damn question."

Matthew just stared back at him. It had been awhile, and there was entirely too much on his mind. He honestly couldn't remember.

The King rolled his eyes, raised his hands, and then slammed them back down. He said every word as a statement, not much of a question at all. "You. Like. Gilbert." He paused, exhaled. "Maybe 'love' is a better word, no matter how revolting I find it."

Matthew was not sure what upset him more – that The King had managed to turn this on him, that he was allowing it to happen, or the words themselves. The confusion morphed into something else entirely before he even realized it – blood-boiling anger.

"Why do you even care?" Matthew practically shouted. "You're always trying to start… something! A fight, chaos, whatever! Honestly, what does it even achieve? What's your motivation?"

The King nearly laughed. "That's the real question, isn't it? What motivates you? We all have our motivations, Princess. That's doesn't mean anyone is willing to admit to them. I bet a lot of us don't even know what they are."

Matthew didn't even attempt to hide his glare any longer. The King was making an attempt to be deep, he supposed, and it made him even angrier than his flippancy or his rudeness. He just wanted this to end, dammit! He wanted Gilbert to be free of this. He wanted Gilbert to be happy. Hell, if Matthew was going to be completely honest with himself for once in his dull, dull, _dull _life, he just wanted _Gilbert. _He wanted Gilbert for his damn self.

"Cut it out." Matthew's vision was turning red, his mind going blank in a hot haze. "Would it kill you to give a straight answer, ever? I just want to know why you claim to hate Gilbert so much. Honestly, there is _nothing _to hate!" He probably should have regretted that last sentence, but he didn't. Matthew could feel nothing but unforgiving rage and he didn't care about stopping it anymore.

"What I should really be asking," said The King as if Matthew had not said anything, as if he was ignoring him completely, which just made him want to jump across the desk and… "Is what motivates _you _to do this crap over and over again? Seriously, if there's one person who shouldn't be talking about straight answers, it's-"

"Because I love my patients!" Matthew felt tears sting his eyes, and he couldn't tell where they came from. Anger? Fear? Sadness? Frustration? He didn't know, and he didn't care to know. "I just want to help them, alright? Is that really so hard to understand? Maybe I go a little bit too far sometimes, maybe things get messy, and maybe I fuck it up completely every once in awhile! I don't care!" The tears were running down his face now, hot and relentless. His voice dipped to a growl. "I try my damnedest, every single day. I'm not about to let someone let _you_ take that away from me. You will _not _break me."

The King blinked, looking almost taken aback for once in his pathetic existence. He tried to grin, tried to scoff, but Matthew wasn't buying it. "Seems you try especially hard with Gil-"

"That's ANOTHER thing!" Now, it was Matthew's turn to scramble to his feet and slam his hand against the desk like he was trying to break it in half. "You won't break Gilbert, either. He's one of the strongest, bravest, most amazing people I have ever known." Matthew leant forward, looked him in the eyes, and admitted it. "And that's why I love him."

Matthew felt an immediate rush of relief. He guessed he had just needed to say it. He just needed to say it once.

The King parted his lips, but no words came out. Instead, he locked up, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. When he met Matthew's gaze again, his eyes were confused, and his words were much softer. "Matthew? Shit, Mattie, are you okay?"

The relief ended up being temporary. Rage and boldness turned to panic and regret as quickly as someone flipping a switch. Matthew stifled a gasp rather pathetically, ripped off his glasses, and wiped at both his eyes with the heels of his hands. This was bad. No, this was catastrophic. It actually took him a moment to accept that yes, he really had said that, and more importantly, he _meant _it.

He had ruined everything. He had failed at his job, he was a joke, and he had let Gilbert – not to mention all his other patients – down. The one thing he had promised himself he would not allow to happen, happened.

Matthew could barely force out, "I'm fine."

"He hit you again." Gilbert did not even make it a question. His eyes were frantic, his face even paler. _"Verdammt, _I KNEW I shouldn't have let this happen!"

"No," said Matthew as quickly as he could. That absolute last thing he needed right now was for Gilbert to blame himself. Things were already a mess, and now there was nothing left to do but attempt to stop it from getting worse. It was the very least he could do. "No, he didn't hit me. He didn't even touch me. Everything is fine." While the former was true, the latter was far from it. Matthew doubted it would ever be true again.

"Then why are you crying?"

That was the real question. Why _was _Matthew always crying? It wasn't something a professional did, and it needed to stop.

It needed to stop right now.

"Look, Gil… Gilbert." Matthew forced himself to look Gilbert in the eye, to sound calm. He saw that Gilbert looked panicked, and he knew immediately that this was long, long overdue. It was time to stop being selfish. "I think someone else should handle your case."

"What?" Gilbert looked as if Matthew had slapped him, and Matthew felt like he had. "What the hell happened? Matthew, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"Please stop apologizing!" Matthew cringed at his own tone, dropped his gaze, and took a slow, cleansing breath. It burned. "He didn't do anything. _You_ didn't do anything. I promise."

"Then, why…"

"You should have a new therapist by tomorrow morning." Matthew had to force the words out, because his throat felt thick. He rounded the desk and started towards the door. Gilbert started to say something, some frantic, confused string of words in the accent Matthew had grown to love entirely too much, and Matthew could only cut him off. "I'm sorry, Gilbert. I'm sorry."

The door opened with a whoosh and closed with a thud. Matthew rushed down the hall; off to arrange for Gilbert to get the unbiased treatment he deserved, well aware that he was leaving the most amazing person he had ever met – the love of his life – behind that office door.

.

It was another late night. Matthew looked to his office window with blurred, tired vision, his eyelids heavy and his head pounding. The stars were too bright. Gaze unmoving, he wondered why he was still at work. There was no reason for him to be. There was no work left to do, and even if there was, Matthew doubted he would even look at it.

Maybe Matthew was only still here because he didn't want to go anywhere else. Not into the hallway, not past Gilbert's room, not near the office where he should have had his therapist changed but didn't. He just… couldn't. _Tomorrow, _Matthew told himself. He would do it tomorrow. If he ever left this damn room, that was.

Just like the stars were too bright and the room was too quiet and Matthew's head was too crowded, the piercing ring of his office phone was too loud.

"Hello?" answered Matthew, his voice raspy.

"Matthew Williams?" The voice was deep, accented, and unfamiliar.

"This is he." Matthew assumed this was someone trying to make an appointment. "It's terribly late, can't this wait until-"

"Oh, thank goodness. We've being trying to reach you at home."

"…Oh." Matthew sat up, confused. No one but family ever called his house. "I'm still at work. Who-"

"Alfred Jones is your brother, correct?"

"Yes, he is." Matthew… didn't like this. He tightened his hold on the phone, heart pounding, and repeated, "Who is this? What's the matter?"

"This is Dr. Carlos Machado, calling from the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida. There's been an accident."

Slowly, carefully, Matthew propped his elbow on the desk and used his free hand to hold his spinning head. "What… what kind of accident?"

Matthew heard the response that followed, but he could not understand it. It came through in pieces. Something about Alfred's ridiculous Porsche, something about falling asleep, something about a truck. Something about a head on collision. Matthew tried to say something, but couldn't remember how. Everything felt unreal, far away, numb.

Maybe it was a minute, maybe it was an hour before Matthew could finally speak. He used the same words he had said and heard time and time again. This time, the world was resting on them. "What's his condition?"

"Stable, but his injuries are quite severe, I'm afraid. His legs…" The doctor broke off quickly, as if saying too much. "Is it at all possible you can get down here?"

Matthew knew he had absolutely no choice. For once in his career, his patients were the last thing on his mind. "I'll be on the first flight tomorrow morning." Without even waiting for a reply, he hung up.

After hours of dreading the very notion, Matthew stood up and left the room as if the air had disappeared from it. He would be gone by morning. But, if he was going to be in any way able to make this trip, there was something he needed to do first.

.

Gilbert lied on his bed in the dark, staring blankly at the ceiling, wide-awake and hopelessly so. In his new single room, the nightly silence was horrible – perhaps even worse than mumbling or screaming or slamming doors. It gave Gilbert entirely too much time alone with his thoughts. The grass really was always greener on the other side, he guessed. Or maybe he was just really goddamn lonely.

Loneliness was something Gilbert knew he needed to get used to. After this afternoon, even though he still didn't know any of what happened, his one glimmer of hope, his one friend in this place, was abandoning him. The bird had finally, finally flown away. He should have been devastated, should have broken, but instead he felt numb. Gilbert had always been waiting for this to happen, albeit unconsciously.

Gilbert then felt an ache in his chest and brought his hand to it. It was useless, but he wasn't expecting anything.

He wasn't exactly expecting a knock at the door in the middle of the night, either.

Gilbert sat up a bit, blinked, and wondered if he was simply hearing things. Then there was another knock. "What in the hell…" he mumbled under his breath. Oh well. It wasn't as if he had been sleeping. Gilbert sat up fully, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and walked to the door. When he opened it, he was met with yet another surprise. "Matthew?"

"Gil." Matthew was almost whispering, as if afraid to break the looming silence. His eyes were red, uncertain, and offset by dark circles. "I'm sorry if I woke you. I just…" He paused like he was choosing his words carefully, and then shrugged like he was giving up. "I just needed to see you."

"Oh." Gilbert blinked a few times, momentarily convinced he was dreaming. When he opened his eyes, Matthew was still standing there, and Gilbert was torn between joy and confusion. "What's up? Did you want to tell me who I'll be seeing?"

"I didn't switch your therapist," said Matthew. Gilbert felt a rush of relief. It was taken away as quickly as it set in. "Well, I guess you will have a different one for awhile. I have to go."

"Go?" It took all Gilbert had not to shout the word. No, Matthew could not go. Not seeing him every day was one thing. But to have him gather his things and disappear… Gilbert shook his head, refusing to consider it, and asked, "Go where? Why?"

"Just for a few days," said Matthew quickly. "I have to go to Florida. It's… it's Alfred." He broke off, looked down, and then finished in a whisper. "He was in a car wreck."

Gilbert's eyebrows flew up. "Shit, is he okay?"

"I don't know. Oh God, Gilbert, I don't know. I shouldn't even be here." Matthew let out a short, humorless laugh that sounded a lot more like a resigned sigh. When he finally looked up, his perfect, gentle smile was quivering. So was his voice. "Why am I here, Gil?"

Gilbert wasn't sure how to respond to that. He stumbled through a useless response, half sympathetic, half anxious, and entirely confused. "I… I don't really know, I mean…"

"I shouldn't be bothering you with this." Matthew took in a sharp breath. His face was pinched, his hand in fists. "God, why can't I just do my job how I'm supposed to?" He then shook his head fervently. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Gilbert. I need to leave you alone."

Matthew turned, and something inside Gilbert snapped.

"No. Hell no." He reached out, took Matthew's hand, and pulled him fiercely into his arms. Matthew gasped, but made no attempt to move. "What do I keep telling you? You work way too damn hard." Gilbert paused, then tightened his hold. This really wasn't time for jokes. "You don't need to be strong all the time, Matthew."

Then abruptly, ferociously, like a dam breaking after years and years of misuse, Matthew lowered his face to Gilbert's shoulder and dissolved into quiet sobs.

Gilbert could only assume that the combined weight of everything he put himself through was finally catching up to him. After years of caring for others, Matthew had completely forgotten to take care of himself. Gilbert swallowed the lump in his throat, ignored the guilty stab in his chest. "It's alright," he said, even if that could very well be a lie. "It's alright, Mattie."

Matthew was clinging to the back of Gilbert's shirt, his shoulders shaking, and his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry…"

"Cut that out," said Gilbert, firm but gentle. "You're human, dammit. You don't need to apologize for being human." Gilbert felt another wave of something guilty and sickening when he asked himself how long Matthew had felt like this. How long had he felt inadequate, overwhelmed, ignored? Gilbert cringed at the thought. It was about time someone looked after Matthew. He was just glad he was the one to do it.

Matthew pulled away too soon. His face was flushed and his breathing was still uneven, but at least he had stopped crying – mostly. Gilbert really couldn't stand to see him cry. "I'm going to have to leave you guys," he said, in the exact same tone he would to apologize. "What if something happens? God, what if-"

"Cut that out, too." Still holding his shoulders, Gilbert looked Matthew flush in the eyes. "How long do you think you'll be gone?"

Matthew stuttered, "Um, I don't know, I think maybe… a week, maybe?"

"Okay. A week. I can promise you this place won't fall apart in a week." Gilbert knew full well he couldn't actually promise that, knowing this place, and Matthew likely knew that, too. But Matthew nodded anyway. "Go take care of your brother. I'm sure someone else here is capable of holding this place down."

Though that was another empty promise, Matthew gave another nod. "What if…" He took a deep breath. "What if he's really hurt, Gil?"

"He'll bounce back. You said the guy is practically Iron Man, right?" Gilbert cracked a smile, and for a split second, Matthew mirrored it. "Everything is going to be fine." He really hoped that was true.

"Okay." Matthew narrowed his conflicted eyes, as if he was trying to come up with a way to deny that. Instead, he just shook his head and repeated, "Okay."

And then it was silent. Matthew just looked at Gilbert, and Gilbert stared back. It was a moment rooted deep in understanding, in trust, and Gilbert never wanted it to end. He never wanted Matthew to walk away, even if he was only leaving for a short time. Matthew was always the one to piece the world back together when things felt broken and hopeless.

"I should go," whispered Matthew finally, breaking the spell.

"Alright." Reluctantly, Gilbert took his arms from Matthew's shoulders and let his hands fall to his sides.

Matthew did not move. "Thank you." Slowly, he rested his hands on Gilbert's shoulders and smiled sadly. "I don't know what I would do without you sometimes."

Gilbert's heart jumped into his throat. This was a perfect, wonderful moment, and he could very easily… Gilbert forced the thought away. Matthew was in no place to deal with anything like that. Instead, Gilbert leant forward and pressed a very quick kiss to Matthew's cheek. "Have a nice trip," he said quietly. "This place will still be standing when you get back. I swear."

Matthew sighed softly, nodded, and turned away. Gilbert watched as he walked down the hall until he disappeared, wondering how this fragile little bird could also be the bravest, strongest, profoundest person he had ever been blessed enough to meet.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	12. Chapter 12

While the winter chill was already beginning to set in back home, the air in Florida was hot, humid, and suffocating. Matthew could barely breathe. Then again, that likely had little to do with the temperatures, and everything to do with the unfamiliar building looming in front of him.

Matthew had never feared hospitals. In fact, they fascinated him, which played a large part in his decision to work in one. Today was no different. As he walked inside, it was not the hospital that shot fear piercing through his heart. The familiar environment was actually comforting. What nearly knocked him to his knees was walking through the lobby, up to the front desk, and opening his mouth to say the words he had been dreading since he left his own hospital the night before.

"Hello. I'm, um, here to see someone?" he stuttered. The woman behind the desk tilted her head, waiting, and Matthew forced himself to continue. "Is… is Alfred F. Jones here?"

"You're not with the media, are you?" The woman sounded exhausted, as if she had asked the same question twenty times today. "If you're looking for pictures or an interview, forget it. Only family members are permitted to see him at the time."

"Oh, no! I'm not with the media." Matthew felt a pang of anger at the thought of anyone exploiting the situation, but he didn't allow it to show on his face. He pulled out his wallet and flashed his medical license. At that very moment, he was the picture of professionalism. It had been awhile since he felt that way. "My name is Matthew Williams. I'm his brother."

"Oh, alright." The woman nodded. "You've been cleared. Okay, you'll need to go down that hallway over there…"

It took a herculean effort to follow the set of instructions he was given. Matthew's heart pounded over each word, his mind spinning, his hands pulling at the sleeves of the same flannel shirt he wore yesterday. A moment later, Matthew was walking… he pretended he was going to work. It kept him from running out the door.

This hospital was smaller than his. It took Matthew only a handful of minutes to find the room that was supposedly Alfred's, marked 704. He froze in front of the door, took a long, cleansing breath, and entered.

"Alfred?" Matthew entered the room with his eyes cast down, and his breath caught when he finally, finally looked up. "Oh, Alfred…"

"Mattie, bro." Alfred sounded as if he attempted an exclamation, but it came out as more of a slur. He was sitting up in bed with the help of pillows, his arm in a sling and resting on his chest. His eyes appeared to be half-lidded and glazed over, but Matthew could not really be sure. The bruises and swelling made it nearly impossible to tell. "You heard, I guess."

"I did. I got on the first flight out." Matthew dared to step further into the room. He sat slowly, carefully on the end of Alfred's bed, just like he did with his patients. "How are you feeling?" He cringed almost as he was saying it. Matthew said that with all his patients, too. He wasn't sure how else to act. In a situation like this, what could he really say?

"They've got me on, like, horse tranquilizers or somethin,'" Alfred said, or, more realistically, slurred. "I'm floating."

"Morphine," Matthew mumbled to himself.

Alfred narrowed his swollen eyes. "Wha?"

"Nothing," said Matthew quickly. He looked up from his twisting hands to glance at Alfred again, and his stomach turned so violently he had no choice but to look away. It was so hard seeing Alfred like this – his strong, brave, indestructible brother, reduced to bruised, broken, and drugged on a hospital bed. More familiar words came before he could stop them. "Al, do you remember what happened at all? Why were you driving when you were so tired?"

Alfred did not seem to look at Matthew, but through him. There was a long pause before he spoke. "Arthur," he said finally. A small smile came across his puffy lips. "We fought… a while ago. Didn't know if he wanted to see me. But, it's been a week. I promised every week. Do I ever break promises?"

"Oh." Matthew could have guessed it was something like that. Still, his heart sunk to his stomach. That drive would have taken at least eighteen hours. If he was remembering correctly, Alfred's last game had been in Miami. That was only about five hours away. Matthew bit his lip. "No, you never break promises, Al."

"How is he?"

Matthew blinked, lost in thought. "Huh?"

"Arthur. Is he okay?"

"Oh," said Matthew again, lighter this time. He could not help but smile. Alfred was here, nearly incoherent and bedridden with injuries, yet he still managed to worry about someone else. It was just like him. "Yes, Arthur is just fine. He's… responding well to treatment." That wasn't exactly the truth, but the truth wouldn't be appropriate.

"That's great. Amazing." Alfred sighed, and then lifted his free hand unconsciously to his chest. It looked to be out of pain rather than longing. "Hey, Mattie? I hate to kick you out, since you just got here and all, but they gave me a ton of meds, and…"

"You're tired," Matthew finished. "I understand, Al. Don't worry about it. I'll come back in a couple hours."

Alfred smiled. "You're the best, bro," he said. Matthew smiled back.

"Of course I am." He shifted his weight, about to stand, when he felt something beneath him and reached a strange conclusion. Matthew stood and looked to Alfred in shock. "Oh, Alfred, I'm sorry! I've been sitting on your leg this whole time. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Huh?" Alfred looked confused. "No you haven't."

"Yes, I have. See, I was sitting right here." Matthew put his hand on Alfred's calve from atop the sheets. Alfred didn't even look down.

"Where?"

"Oh," Matthew breathed the word, lifting his hand away. The air turned to tar. Panic turned in his gut, in his mind, in his chest, everywhere, until it turned to cold, heavy devastation. Alfred couldn't feel his legs. He couldn't feel his legs, he was… Matthew shook his head and forced a smile. It was the morphine. It had to be. "Never mind, I was wrong. I'll see you later today. Get some rest."

Before Alfred could even respond, Matthew rushed out of the room and into the hall. He leaned against the white wall, hot from the sun pouring in from the window, covered his face with his hands, and tried to breathe. This was too much. It was all suddenly too much. He was at least a thousand miles from home, his patients were alone, and Alfred was hurt far worse than he thought he was. Could nothing ever be easy, or at least normal?

"Hey, are you doing alright?" came a man's deep voice. Matthew got the strange feeling he had heard it before. He opened his eyes to see a tanned, heavyset man standing before him. His black dreadlocks were tied back, his stomach poked out from his unbuttoned lab coat, and his warm smile carried to his deep brown eyes. Matthew liked him immediately. He looked trustworthy.

"Yes, yes," said Matthew. "I'm just… worried. My brother is in there."

The man nodded. "Of course." He glanced at the room number and raised an eyebrow. "That's Alfred Jones's room. Are you Matthew?"

"I am." Matthew suddenly realized where he had heard that voice before.

"I see." The man extended a large hand, which Matthew shook. "I've been looking for you. I'm Dr. Carlos Machado, but you can call me Carlos. I believe we spoke on the phone?"

"We did."

Carlos whistled. "Man, you look just like him! When I was coming around the corner, I nearly had a fit. I thought you were Alfred."

"Ah." Matthew could not say that was the first time someone had made the mistake. He didn't particularly mind, either. It definitely wasn't an insult. Then again, he really doubted anyone would mistake him for Alfred now. Matthew adverted his eyes and whispered. "Must have been quite the accident."

Carlos nodded solemnly. "Unfortunately. To my knowledge, he drifted into the other lane and had a head-on with semi-truck. To be real honest, I'm surprised he's not worse off."

Matthew refused to picture it. Really, he couldn't. Instead he thought back to Alfred in his current state, back to the last few moments, and the words came automatically. "What are his injuries? He looks really hurt."

"As typical for a car wreck, Alfred has quite a few scrapes and bruises, of course. As for the more serious ones, he dislocated his shoulder, fractured his pelvis, and cracked a few ribs." Carlos took a long, deep breath. "What we're most concerned about is the damage to his spinal cord."

Matthew swallowed hard. He knew it. "Alfred can't feel his legs," he said before he thought about it.

A pause. "This is the part I hate." Carlos leaned against the wall on the opposite end of the hall, arms crossed and head bowed. "Look, Matthew. You seem like a competent, put together young man, so I'm not going to sugarcoat things with you. I severely doubt Alfred will ever walk again, and he definitely won't be playing any sports."

This wasn't real. This was a nightmare; it had to be. Matthew closed his eyes and waited to wake up. But when he pried his eyes open, he was still in this hospital, still hearing these horrible words, still being looked at with pained sympathy. This was real. This horrifically unfair reality was, in fact, reality.

"Oh. Oh my god." Tears rose to Matthew's eyes just as his vision tunneled. He tried to wipe them away, but they just kept coming, and he gave up. "Are you sure? I mean, he's…" _He's supposed to be indestructible._ Matthew tried to breathe, even though it was in vain. "This will kill him," he finished in a whisper.

"I know how hard this is to hear." Carlos sounded sympathetic, but Matthew felt a pang of misdirected anger. What the hell did he know? Carlos was _walking. _

Matthew managed to hide the surge of emotion. "Does he know?"

Carlos shook his head. "No. He's too heavily medicated to comprehend that kind of information right now. We plan to give him a rundown about a week from now."

Matthew nodded, feeling sick. This was the kind of thing that made him grateful he worked in psychiatrics. It wasn't easy telling Alfred that Arthur might beyond help, or Yao that Ivan had a possibility of being a sociopath, of course. He didn't love that he diagnosed things like borderline personality disorder and manic depression on a daily basis either. But telling someone they would never walk again? Matthew couldn't fathom it.

"Where are you from, Matthew?"

Matthew blinked away his thoughts at the sound of Carlos's voice. "I live in New York, in the outskirts of the city."

"That's a ways away," said Carlos. "And I understand you're a doctor yourself?"

"Yes, a psychiatrist. I work in inpatient."

Carlos's eyes widened as he nodded. "Wow. That's a tough department. Wonderful, but tough. I commend you." He paused. "You had to leave pretty abruptly, I bet."

Matthew nodded, at least part of him wondering where this was going. "I left the morning after I got the call. I didn't even have time to tell my patients." _Except one, _he neglected to say.

Carlos exhaled, eyes narrowed, almost as if he was in awe. "Wow. You must be in a tremendous amount of stress, my brother." He clapped Matthew on the shoulder. "Us doctors wear ourselves pretty thin, don't we? Anything for the patient, we always say. Anything for the patient."

Matthew had never resonated with a statement more. "Of course," he said. "I have to wonder how mine are doing."

"I bet." Carlos sighed, shook his head. "Honestly, Matthew, I don't think you should even be here."

"_What?_" Matthew felt another surge of anger. It took a good amount of will power not to scream at the man, or at least rip away from his grip. "Alfred is my brother!"

"I know, I know. I'm not saying you did the wrong thing by coming," said Carlos evenly. "Alfred is going to need a lot of support, of course. But he's not the only one."

Matthew sniffed. "What do you mean?"

"This is not meant to be offensive to you, Matthew, but if you're worried about Alfred, about your patients, about being away from your practice, all at the same time… I don't believe you'll be the best means of support right now. That's through no fault of your own."

Despite that last sentence, Matthew felt a hummingbird of guilt zing through his chest, nearly powerful enough to knock him from his feet. He steadied himself against the wall. "Doesn't Alfred need me?"

"Well, of course. My point still stands." Carlos gave a small, sad smile. "Now, I don't know Alfred personally just yet, but I've heard plenty about him. Do you really think he'd want his brother missing work to take care of him?"

Matthew opened his mouth to protest, but bowed his head instead. "No, not really," he said towards the ground.

"Brothers can be stubborn that way." Carlos nearly laughed. "Look, Matthew. What I'd advise you to do is this. Stay a couple days, then go home and take the rest of the week for yourself. I can assure you Alfred is in fine hands. Do you have anyone you can confide in about this? Family, friends, maybe a significant other?"

Matthew had to stop and think for a moment. Alfred, his brother and usual confidant, was here. His parents were not a big part of his life. The majority of his friends were more business acquaintances than anything, and he wasn't dating anyone. Matthew was actually… shockingly alone, now that he really thought about it. "Well…"

He stopped speaking when a name slammed into him like a train: _Gilbert. _He wasn't family, and the word 'friend' just… felt wrong, at this point. Gilbert was in a category of his own.

"Yes, I have… someone," said Matthew finally. He was able to smile then. He wondered how Gilbert would react to Matthew calling him his 'someone.'

"That's wonderful. And please, don't worry. Alfred is well taken care of." Carlos smiled again. "Besides, by what he keeps mumbling about, I'm fairly certain he has a special someone of his own on the way."

_Arthur, _Matthew thought immediately. He didn't have to heart to say Alfred's 'special someone' wasn't going to be 'on his way' anywhere any time soon. While Arthur had made considerable progress, he wouldn't even be ready to leave the hospital for at least another month or so, much less travel any long distance.

Carlos glanced down at his watch, and then gave Matthew a heavy pat on the arm that was likely meant to be softer than it was. Matthew winced. "I have to get going. We'll be in touch."

After the two men exchanged business cards, Carlos was rushing down the hall, and Matthew was, again, alone. He opened Alfred's door a crack, peaked in, and saw that he was sleeping. Matthew exhaled in relief before shutting the door again. The longer Alfred slept, the longer he would be allowed to exist in blissful ignorance. As selfish – and, if Matthew was going to be completely honest with himself, downright awful – as it was, he was at least somewhat thankful he wouldn't be around when Alfred got the news.

Then there was nothing left to do. Unwilling to worry, grieve, or bat away misplaced guilt a second longer, Matthew did the only thing he could muster the energy for – he found a place to sit down and checked his work email.

Everything was falling apart, but he would be damned if he couldn't hold at least one thing together.

.

Gilbert stared at the white walls of his room, which had become so silent he could nearly hear his heart beating. It had been an excruciatingly quiet couple of days. It was not just him, either. Ivan never left his room, now that his garden was torn apart for… some reason. Arthur spent the majority of his time staring out the window at the wreckage. Mathias, to Gilbert's knowledge, had checked out. All that was left was silence.

Matthew's replacement wasn't exactly helping, either. Dr. Hassan was a tiny, frail Middle Eastern man, who wore eyeliner and a flat expression consistently. After asking around, Gilbert learned he usually worked in outpatient, specifically grief counseling, in an office right down the hall.

Half the time Gilbert forgot Dr. Hassan – or Gupta, according to his name pin – was even there. Five days and he probably heard him speak twice, one of those times being an absurdly short therapy session in which Gilbert was only asked if his medication was giving him any side effects. The whole thing was extremely impersonal, and it only made Gilbert realize how thankful he truly was for Matthew. Three days without him felt like a decade.

Either way, life went on. Gilbert had to find a way to pass the time somehow. The flute he now considered his was under lock and key, so while the hours ticked by as slowly as tar, Gilbert wrote. He wrote so much he made a mental note to ask Matthew for a new journal when he got back.

Gilbert wasn't even sure what he filled the blank pages with. Half the time it was little more than word vomit, a dump of everything and anything that happened to cross his mind. Other times he wrote down his dreams from the night before, his memories from a decade before, what he was wishing for at the moment. He wrote about the other patients, his friends, his grandfather, his brother. Of course he wrote about Matthew. While he was away, this was Gilbert's therapy.

This time, Gilbert had no intention to show these words to anyone. This torn up, beat up, scribbly train wreck of a journal was one of the few things he could really call his own. He even stuffed it under his mattress when he wasn't using it, just in case. The King would never look there.

The silence ended exactly how it started – with a knock at Gilbert's door, although this time it came in the afternoon rather than the dead of night.

Gilbert went to the door after he shoved his journal in its hiding spot, blinking away his trance, and opened it to find Matthew standing there. The sight was identical to what it was three days ago, except Matthew was not tearing up this time. Instead he looked exhausted, dark circles smudged under his eyes, and his hair askew. His familiar flannel seemed looser on him.

"Mattie," said Gilbert. He wanted to reach out and embrace him, but he didn't want to push his luck. "You're back already?"

Through some miracle, Matthew smiled. "Yes. Well, sort of. This is technically still one of my personal days."

Gilbert scoffed. "You have the day off, and you come into work anyway. That's my Matthew, all right."

Matthew arched an eyebrow. "Oh, so I'm _your _Matthew now?"

"Oh, uh, what I meant is…"

"Calm down, Gil. I knew what you meant." Matthew let out a tiny laugh, and Gilbert was shocked how deeply the simple sound struck him. After five days in this silent, lonely hellhole, that laugh was the rainbow after the rain.

"Alright." Gilbert leaned against the doorframe, his grin falling when he remembered why he was gone in the first place. "Hey, how's your brother doing?"

Matthew's face abruptly fell, and Gilbert almost regretted asking. It was as if he had forgotten. "He's…" Matthew sighed, a heavy, weighted, trembling sound that churned Gilbert's stomach. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, of course." Gilbert ushered Matthew in and shut the door behind him. Matthew sat next to Gilbert on his bed, just as he always did, but this felt different, somehow. Gilbert's heart was beating too fast. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Alfred…" Matthew scoffed loudly, threw up his hands, and blurted, "Alfred is _paralyzed, _Gilbert."

"What?" Faint anxiety turned to all-consuming shock. "Holy shit! Are you sure?"

"Yes. I mean, I think. The doctor was talking about his spinal cord, and I just… I don't know. They haven't even told him yet. He's on too many painkillers, or something. God… I just don't know, I don't know…"

"Okay, okay. It's okay." Gilbert stumbled through the words, because they obviously were not true. This wasn't okay; it was catastrophic. If it were Ludwig… Gilbert forced himself to speak. "How are you, uh, feeling?" A wave of déjà-vu hit, but he ignored it.

"Wow," said Matthew quietly, shaking his head. "It's like you're the therapist now, Gil. I should honestly be fired."

"No," said Gilbert immediately, almost panicked. At a loss of what else to do, he reached out and patted Matthew clumsily on the shoulder. "No… no, you don't. Really." He wasn't sure what else he could say.

In Gilbert's mind, firing Matthew for being a bad therapist would be like excommunicating Mother Theresa for being a harlot.

"Well, thanks." Matthew leant closer to Gilbert, perhaps unconsciously, and quickly changed the subject. "How have things been around here?"

Gilbert knew immediately that Matthew was trying to take the focus off himself, as he always did. It seemed premature, but Gilbert figured after all Matthew had been through, he owed him that much. If he didn't want to talk about it, they wouldn't.

"Real quiet," he said. "Arthur and Ivan are zombies now, don't you know?"

"Unfortunately." Matthew sighed, shrugged, a certain look of defeat on his face that Gilbert had never seen there. It made him uncomfortable. "I'm not surprised, really. Ivan and Yao are… fighting," he said rather matter-of-factly, as if it was least of this worries despite the situation's apparent magnitude.

"Oh." Gilbert decided not to push for details. "What about Arthur?"

"He and Alfred were fighting too, apparently." Again, very matter-of-fact.

"Oh." Gilbert wondered why everyone was suddenly fighting, but again, he decided against pushing it. If anything, he was grateful that he and Matthew were getting along. "Does he know…"

"No." Matthew laughed in the same short, humorless, almost sad way that was quickly becoming a habit of his. "I'll have to tell him eventually, of course. Just… not now. I can't do it right now."

For once, Gilbert noticed, Matthew was making a decision for his own benefit. He didn't even put himself down for it. Gilbert breathed in inaudible sigh of relief. "Yeah, I get you." Matthew didn't respond or even look up, so Gilbert scrambled for a way to fill the silence. "Why'd you come in today, anyway?"

Matthew smirked. "Do you want the professional answer, or the truthful one?"

"Hmm… how about both? Amuse me."

There was that laugh again. It was a little lighter this time. "Well, the professional answer is that I need to check in with Gupta and see how all of my patients are doing." Matthew shrugged. "The truth is that I wanted to see _you_, Gilbert. Just you."

"For real?" Gilbert tried not to sound as flustered as he felt. He failed spectacularly when he leant back on his hands and, without thinking, blurted, "I've been wanting to see you too. I wrote about it in my diary." He flushed and rushed into a rather pathetic cover-up. "I mean, uh, my journal, that you gave me. I think I might need another one soon. I wrote a lot. About you." _Dammit. _Gilbert figured he better just stop talking.

A pause. Then, after a horrifically tense second that could have lasted a year, Matthew broke out into a peel of laughter that contained neither sadness nor dejection. "I have extras in my office. I'll make sure to get you one," he forced out in the midst of it.

"Thanks," muttered Gilbert, his face burning.

"I should be thanking you," said Matthew. He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes, still visibly fighting off giggles. Gilbert's heart skipped a hard beat. "Really, Gil. I needed that." He smiled, and it looked effortless this time. "You always manage to cheer me up."

At that, Gilbert felt almost absurdly proud. He tried not to let it show on his face. "Well, I guess I'm just hilarious."

"Yes, but it's not just that. It's…" Matthew trailed off with a sigh, and then changed the subject. "I think I'm going to need a lot of cheering up for awhile. Things are going to get chaotic again."

He sounded almost apologetic, and Gilbert understood immediately – Matthew had entirely too much to deal with, and he would not have much time for him. It was understandable, of course, but the thought felt like a punch to the stomach.

Gilbert ignored it. Unsure what else to do, he reached across the space between them, grabbed Matthew's hand, and poured his heart out. "I'll always be here to cheer you up, Matthew," he said. Matthew stared at him intently, his mouth slightly agape. "No matter what happens, I'll be here. I don't care how crazy things gets." Gilbert squeezed his hand as tightly as he could. "I promise."

"Thank you." Tears welled up in Matthew's eyes, and then, like the clouds breaking, he smiled. It wasn't even a surprise when Matthew embraced him. It felt natural, just like it did to hold him for god knows how long. Gilbert felt as if he would never let him go.

But about a week later, after a loud commotion that woke Gilbert up in the middle of the night, Ivan's bedroom window was broken, and Arthur was gone.

Matthew was gone just as quickly.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	13. Chapter 13

As winter set in, Gilbert got used to spending a lot of time alone. Matthew had a slew of messes to deal with, between Alfred, Arthur, Ivan, and God knows what else. He was always running around, always preoccupied. But Gilbert understood the situation. He couldn't blame him. Sure, he was hardly Matthew's main priority right now, but that was temporary. Probably.

The King had come out a couple of times, but it was nothing he couldn't manage. Nothing catastrophic had happened… yet. Things felt in control, if not a little lonely. Gilbert could probably up and leave if he wanted to. It was like he didn't even need Matthew anymore – Gilbert shook that thought from his head. Who was he kidding? By now, he needed Matthew like he needed food and water, and that went far beyond the therapy aspect.

Well, if nothing else, at least he was helping out by being the least troublesome, right? He must be.

But Gilbert could only tell himself that for so long. Today, for example, was seriously testing him. According to the calendar in the hall, it was the 24th. Gilbert was sitting alone in the empty hospital longue, watching the television nobody used anymore, pretending his cup of lukewarm water was beer, and trying not to feel too sorry for himself.

But really, he had never felt more pathetic in his life.

"Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock," Gilbert half-sang, half-mumbled to himself. He craned his neck, saw Ivan was still outside in the snow staring at… something, and raised his plastic cup in the direction of the window. "Merry fucking Christmas, asshole," he said, before downing the entire thing.

Gilbert wondered what Francis and Antonio were doing. Probably out somewhere drinking, he guessed. Antonio was likely with Lovino, Francis with whomever he decided to spend that particular evening with. Ludwig had to be with Feliciano. And Gilbert… Gilbert was here, alone, watching infomercials.

He gave a bleak laugh when he remembered his last Christmas Eve – after an all-night bender that cycled through at least five pubs, he woke up on Elizaveta's lawn with one shoe, a Santa hat he wasn't wearing when he left the house, and a different pair of pants. He only got about half the night before The King took over, but even that was better than this. Hell, waking up in some alleyway again would be better than this. This felt like everyone had simply forgotten him.

"Who needs them anyway?" mumbled Gilbert in spite of his thoughts. He nodded in the direction of the window. "Right, Ivan?"

The front door creaked open just a moment later, and for a tense, terrifying second of lunacy, Gilbert expected it to _be_ Ivan, as if he had heard him and was looking for another fight. What he ended up seeing struck fear into his heart just as effectively.

Gilbert sat up so quickly he nearly fell to the floor. "What the _hell_…"

"Gilbert," said Ludwig calmly, too calmly. He didn't say his name as if it was an insult like he usually did, but rather as an almost resigned sigh. He stepped into the room and unzipped his heavy coat as if nothing was unusual. "How are you-"

Gilbert rose to his feet and squared his shoulders, his heart pounding furiously. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Ludwig met his gaze evenly. "I wanted to say Merry Christmas."

Gilbert balked. He hadn't seen Ludwig in _months. _Now, out of nowhere, he was back? As if nothing had happened? _How dare you, _Gilbert wanted to say. Instead, he simply spat, "Why?"

"What do you mean, why?" Ludwig took a few steps forward. "I'm your brother."

"And you want to act like it now?"

Ludwig sighed. "Please, Gilbert. I do not want to fight."

"That's new." Despite this harsh tone, Gilbert's shoulders loosened, his teeth no longer bared. "What took you so long?"

What followed felt like a staring contest. Ludwig's eyes were as bright and blue as they always were, striking in the wash of grey around them, unreadable and locked firmly on Gilbert's own. The gusting winds were the only thing to break up the silence, save for Gilbert's pounding heart.

Ludwig spoke after what felt like a year. "I was waiting for the right time."

"Ah." Gilbert felt something that could either be anger or hurt – he had long since lost the ability to tell the difference. He wasn't a priority to Ludwig, he guessed. He probably shouldn't have been surprised. "How's your life been, then?"

"Fine. Busy. Work has been a bit difficult." Ludwig cleared his throat. "How about yourself?"

"Oh, non-stop party. Can't you tell?" Gilbert waved his hands around – to the empty room, the blaring television, the snow piling up outside. He would give anything for a 'busy' life or a 'difficult' job right now. This was just depressing.

"It does seem a bit vacant." Ludwig cupped the back of his neck and looked down, but resumed perfect posture a second later. "The staff here is quite strict, aren't they?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I asked if I could take you out, just for tonight. They told me it was not possible."

This time, Gilbert was entirely sure what he was feeling was anger, even though it seemed misplaced. Months of resentment were bubbling in his chest like a volcano coming out of dormancy. "What makes you think I want to go anywhere with you?"

Ludwig ignored his harsh tone. "There's… a staff party, at Mr. Edelstein's house. He does it every Christmas Eve. I thought you would like to come."

"Why? So you can parade me around like a sideshow freak?"

Ludwig's eyes narrowed. He took a long, slow breath before responding. "No, because I thought you would enjoy it." After a short pause, he added, "Matthew is there."

The room felt suddenly hot. How much did Ludwig know, and how did he know it? Gilbert felt his face turn red, then white, and he could only shout in response. "So what?"

"You seem fond of him." Ludwig sighed. "Look, Gilbert, it does not even matter. They would not let you out anyway."

_Let you out… _the words made Gilbert feel like a prisoner, a criminal. But that was kind of accurate, wasn't it? Gilbert was here because he was deemed unfit for the rest of the world. This eyes stung, his mind spun. "Great. That's just great, Ludwig. I'm so sorry you had to miss out on your party to come visit your crazy ass brother."

"Why can't we just have a conversation?" Ludwig took a bold step forward, breaking the unspoken boundary stretched between them. "You are so defensive. Whatever I say, it is wrong somehow!" Then, he fell out of his alert stance, softened his expression, and looked down at the floor. It was a certain kind of defeatism that Gilbert had never seen on his face before. It was just… wrong. "I just want to make amends."

Gilbert wanted that, too. He had wanted it for a long, long time, but now it felt impossible. Just existing was almost impossible. He was cold, he was tired, he missed Matthew, and he had no idea how to talk with his own brother. Everything was a mess and he just didn't want to deal with it anymore. "Just leave me alone, Ludwig."

"Gilbert-"

"Please." Gilbert lowered himself back onto the couch, turning his attention away from his brother and back to the mindless noise spurting out from the television. Gilbert forced himself to stare at it, forced himself not to look back at Ludwig, forced himself to say, "I just want to be alone."

Really, that was only partially true. Gilbert was in the strange situation of wanting to be alone while simultaneously being crushingly lonely. It was a strange, paradoxical feeling he was quickly getting used to.

There was another long silence. Then, there was a soft set of footsteps, the creek of a door hinge, and a low, hollow voice that might as well have been a stranger's. "Merry Christmas."

And Gilbert was alone again.

Just like always.

.

Winter began in a haze of panic, and life was chaotic again before it even had a chance to be calm.

The frenzy started in November, when Matthew realized Arthur had quite literally escaped, and ended around the time he found him exactly where he expected him to be – in Florida, sitting by Alfred's bedside, with no intention of returning. Alfred – who had turned from drugged and oblivious to angry, sullen, and withdrawn – had no intention of letting him do that, either. Arthur was the string he was holding on by.

And Matthew was not about to cut that string, no matter how problematic he found the entire situation. Resigned to picking his battles, he spent the rest of the month running around, traveling between New York and Florida, checking in on Alfred, and pretending not to worry about Arthur. By the time things calmed down enough to deal with his own patients, it was already December.

But even that was getting almost too difficult to manage. Ivan had been refusing to talk to Yao for weeks now, but it was not until December that Yao finally gave up trying. Ivan dealt with it all by essentially going mute, refusing sessions, and spending countless hours alone, cold, and stone-faced in the garden he had ruined. He was worse than when he checked in. All the progress he had made was gone the second Matthew had his back turned, and Matthew was at a loss.

When he was sure things could not possibly get any worse, they did. Midway through the wretched month, around the time the first snowfall finally hit and the air was cold and still enough to shatter, Heracles Karpusi, a terminal heart failure patient Matthew occasionally consoled, finally lost the battle with his illness and passed away. Heracles was a quiet, thoughtful Greek man who was wise beyond his years, not to mention blisteringly intelligent, if not slightly eccentric. He was also twenty-six years old.

The loss hit Matthew like a fist when he was already reeling. But if it hit him like a fist, it hit Kiku – Matthew's colleague and Heracles's nurse – like an avalanche. It wasn't a secret to anyone they had crossed the nurse/patient boundary some time ago. Heracles had spent the last month of his life in Kiku's home, after all. In the aftermath, Kiku turned as numb and cold as the weather. He, like Ivan, refused to talk to anyone.

But Matthew refused to give up. He had called Yao about a week ago, called Alfred and Arthur a couple days ago, and checked on Ivan about an hour ago. Things seemed under control… in the moment. Now, in the midst of Roderich's huge annual party on Christmas Eve, he had even managed to find Kiku.

"Merry Christmas, Kiku," said Matthew, even though it felt like anything but.

By Kiku's slow response and tired eyes, he could tell he was not the only one who felt that way. "Oh, Merry Christmas."

Matthew fought not to cringe. Kiku looked too thin, too old, too… lifeless. He tried to smile for the sake of both of them as he settled on the luxury leather sofa, even though the simple act felt like an outright lie. "Quite a crowd, huh?"

"It certainly is." Kiku's voice was flat, his eyes glazed over. His mind was clearly elsewhere. "Mr. Edelstein seems to know quite a few people."

All this beating around the bush Matthew had been doing had grown to be exhausting. He had done it was Yao, with Ivan, with Alfred, with Arthur, with himself. Finally, he broke. "It was really brave of you to come, Kiku. I'm sure it wasn't easy."

Kiku just shrugged – it looked empty and automatic. "I will have to move on sometime."

Matthew's heart clenched, and he drowned the feeling with a long drink of his cocktail. Heracles had died less than two week ago. The idea that Kiku was beating himself up for mourning him – the love of his life – after such a short time, was heartbreaking.

"Don't be too hard on yourself. It's been a very short amount of time, Kiku. No one is expecting you to be perfect right away." Matthew knew his next words were repetitious and honestly useless at his point, but he said them anyway. "I hope you know my offer still stands. You can come see me anytime."

Kiku did not respond. He only looked not at Matthew, but through him, lost in thought or memory or both.

Okay, so maybe grief counseling wasn't the answer yet. Matthew decided to try a different approach. "There's a quote that hangs in my office. 'Happiness depends upon ourselves.'" He hoped those ancient words would resonate with Kiku, as they occasionally did with other patients.

Kiku tensed. "And who is that quote by?"

Matthew responded without thinking, wondering why it mattered. "Aristotle."

Kiku then closed his eyes, leant forward, and brought his shaking, pale hands to his face. "Oh," he about whispered. Matthew was confused for a moment – before he remembered that Heracles had adored Aristotle. It was something he must have mentioned to Kiku a million times. A zing of guilt hit like a fist, but before he could even apologize, Kiku said, "Excuse me, please," and bolted away.

This was a mess. A massive, absolute, unfixable mess. Matthew downed the rest of his drink and sighed. Kiku had fallen into a deep depression. Ivan had resigned to his illness. Alfred was permanently disabled. Arthur's long-term prognosis was a mystery and out of Matthew's control. Everyone was in shambles, and Matthew only had himself to blame. He had failed at his job. There was no other conclusion.

"Wonderful," Matthew muttered around the edge of his empty glass, "just wonderful."

But even then, through his guilt and regret and utter dejection, Matthew got the strange feeling he was forgetting something. As if the checklist of catastrophes in his head was not complete. As the evening progressed, he tried to find the answer over Roderich's piano and the careless conversation he didn't have the privilege of, until the grandfather in the hall chimed ten.

When Matthew was on the verge of giving up, the answer poured into him like a tsunami: Gilbert. Gilbert, who had been quiet lately. Gilbert, who had been swept to the wayside for the crime of not having problems as urgent as everyone else's. Gilbert, who was definitely alone right now, seeing as Ludwig had stormed into the party like a wild bull just a moment ago.

Matthew knew what he had to do. Even if he could solve nothing else, he could make this better. He stood, snuck to the kitchen, slipped two beers into his coat pockets, and rushed out into the blizzard.

.

Gilbert wasn't sure if he was sleeping. He was at least trying, since there was nothing else to do. His eyes were closed, but he could still hear the buzz of the television, the strong winds, and above all, his conversation with Ludwig on torturous repeat. It sure felt like he was awake.

But when the door opened again and he heard his voice, Gilbert couldn't imagine it not being a dream.

"Gilbert…" A soft, surreal sigh. "Gilbert, I'm so sorry."

For the second time that night, Gilbert sat up with such force that he nearly toppled over. He blinked a few times, part shocked, part unbelieving. "Matthew?" He looked over the couch like a gopher from a hole. "I thought you were at a party."

"I was. I left." Matthew crossed the room and propped his elbows on the back of the couch, lifting his shoulders in a slight shrug. "It was a little boring anyway."

Gilbert was not entirely sure if he believed him. "Can't be any worse than this place," he said, a little poutier than he intended.

Matthew looked around, and then sighed again. "That's… kind of why I'm sorry, actually." His gaze fell to Gilbert. "You've been alone a lot lately, haven't you?"

"Yeah, well." Gilbert shrugged in a way he hoped could be read as nonchalant – as if being alone had not torn him apart, as if seeing Ludwig had not worsened the wound, as if every word Matthew spoke was slowly sewing him back together. "It's all good."

"It's really not…" Matthew reached into his coat and pulled out an all too familiar glass bottle, and then held it out to Gilbert. "Hopefully this will make up for it."

Gilbert grasped for the bottle far too eagerly, like a hungry infant. "You brought me _beer?_" he asked, incredulous. "There's no way this is allowed."

"Oh, no, not in the slightest." Matthew laughed, and it sounded a mix of self-critical and completely resigned. He walked around the couch, sat down, and produced another beer from his deep coat pocket before shrugging it off his shoulders. "I've kind of given up on following the status quo, can you tell?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Rules are meant to broken." He clinked his bottle against Matthew's. "Cheers to that."

Gilbert pried off the cap and took a long drink. He closed his eyes as it went down, and the taste brought him to simpler, easier times that felt decades in the past, when really they had taken place only a few months ago.

"Cheers to that," Matthew repeated, softly. He drummed his fingers against the glass. "Was Ludwig here earlier?"

Memory screamed, and Gilbert attempted to silence it with another long drink. "Yeah," he said. "He was. For a little while, at least."

"How did it go?" By the sound of Matthew's voice, it could easily be implied that he already knew the answer.

Another drink. "Like it usually does."

"Oh, Gil…"

"Hey, it's alright. It'll settle itself somehow." Gilbert knew he was lying to himself, but this was the first decent moment he had had in weeks and he wasn't about to spoil it.

"I hope so." Matthew spun the drink around in his hands, contemplative, but fortunately let the subject drop. Gilbert sighed in relief.

"Besides, I'm pretty damn sure I'm not the worst off." Gilbert lifted a hand and gestured to the window. "Like, what's up with Ivan? Are he and that Yao guy still fighting or something?"

"It's a bit more complex than that." Matthew's eyes narrowed in what looked to be regret, perhaps guilt. "Long story short is that I was… paying, Yao, for awhile. He ran into Ivan when he was lost, and Ivan was infatuated with him immediately. I thought speaking to Yao would help him to open up, and it did. But then…" Matthew just shrugged.

Gilbert whistled. He had known the basic gist of this situation, but he hadn't given it any thought until now. Sure, he still didn't like Ivan, and he never would, but it was becoming increasingly more common that he was forced to consider that the monstrous Russian was more than just the bane of his existence. Gilbert couldn't imagine finding out someone had been paid to love him.

"Damn," he breathed. "So the whole thing was fake?"

"No," said Matthew firmly, immediately. "It turned very real, very quickly. But Ivan doesn't believe that anymore."

"Damn," said Gilbert again. What else was there to say, really? "How about Arthur? Did you find him?"

"Yes, thank god. He's with Alfred." Matthew shook his head as if to clear it. "God knows how he got to Florida on his own. I try not to think about it too much." A pause. "Same way I try not to think about Kiku."

"Who's Kiku?"

"A nurse in the hospice department. Friend of mine." Matthew took a long drink, and then told the story in lifeless snippets. "Fell in love with one of his terminal patients. He had six months to live to begin with, and he died a few weeks ago. Kiku is a bit of a wreck, naturally."

At that, Gilbert immediately felt hugely, pervasively guilty. Here he was feeling sorry for himself, almost completely ignorant to the fact that Matthew's life – not to mention everyone else's – was in such turmoil. Fighting with Ludwig and feeling lonely seemed almost embarrassingly petty now that he had some perspective.

"That's, uh, wow." Unsure what to say or do, Gilbert finished his beer and patted Matthew clumsily on the knee. "Sorry," he finished uselessly.

"Oh, that's alright. There's nothing you could do. Like you said, it'll settle itself somehow. Hopefully." Matthew paused, set his drink deliberately on the table, and looked to Gilbert. "You've really been my rock throughout all of this, you know."

Gilbert swallowed roughly and shrugged. "Oh, come on…"

"No. Really. I mean it." Matthew turned on the couch, and for a moment, Gilbert expected him to embrace him again. Instead, he reached up and brushed his cheek with his fingers. Gilbert did not dare to breathe. "You're so much more than just a patient to me. You're…" Matthew broke off, laughed. "You're just awesome."

That was what did it. That simple, everyday choice of words, and Gilbert knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had never loved anyone the way he loved Matthew. And he doubted he ever would again.

The words came before Gilbert could stop them. "I love you, Matthew."

Matthew flinched, but did not move away, his eyes dark and conflicted and tired. But then, he simply sighed and said, "I love you too, Gilbert. I love you." The words were like a gasp, a sigh, a decompression of something that had been denied and forced down and hidden for entirely too long. He ran his thumb across Gilbert's cheekbone and smiled sadly. "And that's just terrifying to me."

It was a little terrifying to Gilbert, too. This was not how things were supposed to work out. He was not supposed to fall for this therapist; his therapist was certainly not supposed to do the same. But logic was clouded by the bright, beautiful, bursting joy of it all, and the details were suddenly as irrelevant as the snow.

"Let's not worry about it right now." Then, Gilbert did what he had been waiting months and months to do. He leant forward; brushed one of Matthew's blond curls aside, and brought their lips together.

Then, in that moment, Gilbert went back on himself. Yes, this _was _how things were supposed to turn out. This was fate, this was destiny, this was all that fairytale crap that Gilbert laughed at a year ago.

Gilbert pulled away the slightest bit, for the slightest moment. "I love you," he said again, only because it felt so nice to finally say it without regret, fear, or heartbreak. It was such a blinding relief that Gilbert actually laughed. "I just really love you, Birdie."

"Birdie." Matthew smiled against the side of Gilbert's mouth. "I like that," he said, and then kissed him again.

Gilbert held onto his little bird, careful not the let his big grizzly paws hurt him. He ran his fingers through his hair, across his cheeks, his shoulders, his neck, losing himself in the moment, in Matthew's little sighs, in _Matthew. _

The chains had finally broken and both of them were free.

* * *

_To be continued..._

* * *

_Author's Note: Wow, a lot was covered in this chapter, and I apologize that it was so rapid-fire. To clear things up, Arthur and Alfred's story is in the works and should be publishing fairly soon. Kiku and Heracles's story can be found in 'In Another Life,' which is completed. Ivan and Yao's story can be found in 'Little Sunflower,' which is also completed. It's not necessary to read those to understand this, but it would definitely add to the experience!_


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: I apologize for the slow updates recently. Life is a troublesome thing, sometimes. Rest assured, I'm still working on these fics, and I will finish them even if I die trying. To be completely honest, I doubt I'll ever stop writing for this fandom! Thank you all for being patient.**

* * *

This was too familiar a setting. Matthew was in front of him, Ludwig was beside him, and Gilbert was staring at his hands and wondering what to say. But something was different. It was not storming, for one thing. But that was not it… there was something else, something that kept Gilbert's pulse slow, something that kept the proverbial bomb that ticked whenever his brother was around from being set off.

"Thank you for coming back, Ludwig," said Matthew finally. He and Ludwig exchange a short, weighted look that made Gilbert curious. Ludwig was the first to look away.

"Not a problem." Ludwig cleared his throat, his eyes fixed firmly on his shoes.

"It's been a while since we've done this." Matthew folded his hands against the desk and threw Ludwig another knowing look. Gilbert got the odd and strangely annoying feeling that he was missing something, here. "And I have a feeling things have changed a bit since then."

That, Gilbert understood perfectly well. He thought back to Christmas Eve, back to what very well could have been the best moment of his life, and was immediately caught between equally powerful urges to either blush or grin triumphantly.

Ludwig nodded. "I would be inclined to agree."

Matthew nodded back, and finally dropped his firm-as-steel stare. "So, I understand it's been quite awhile since you two have gotten together?"

"That's right," said Ludwig, no emotion on his face. "I tried to come before Christmas, but Gilbert was not thrilled about seeing me."

Now, it was Gilbert's turn to nod like some kind of robot. A small part of him felt the need to retaliate, to push the blame, but it was too slight of an urge to even acknowledge. What was the point, really?

"Any reason why that was, Gil?"

"Yeah." Gilbert shrugged. "It's just… it's been so long since I've even seen the guy, and then he just kind of, I don't know, fell out of the sky. It took me off guard."

Ludwig said nothing, and Matthew was the one to fill the silence. "So, it was a heat of the moment reaction?"

"Kinda." Gilbert looked towards the ground, growing uncomfortable, and for a slip second went for his sleeve. The jolt of shock was enough to bring his eyes forward again. "It's been months; literally months. It pissed me off that it took him so long."

"Was that it?" Ludwig sounded genuinely shocked. "Why did you not tell me that?"

"I dunno," Gilbert muttered, because he honestly didn't know.

"It can be difficult to convey those types of thoughts," Matthew cut in. "Ludwig, is there a reason you waited so long to visit?"

"Because," Ludwig let out a heavy, drawn out sigh, his shoulders loosening like a wall tumbling down as he turned to Gilbert, "I was positive you did not want me anywhere near you."

"Was _that _it?" Gilbert felt a sense of déjà-vu, but ignored it. It was well covered by the surprise, anyway. "Why didn't you just say that?"

Ludwig looked equally as perplexed. "I'm not sure."

Matthew let out a short, mirthless giggle. "You two really aren't all that different, you know." Before the words even set it properly, he added, "Gilbert, is that true? Did you not want to see him?"

_Of course I didn't want to see him, _was Gilbert's immediate, unconscious thought. But his next, the one to first make sense in his head and then eventually pass his lips, was, "No… No, I wanted to see him. I've been wanting to." Then, in a breath, "For awhile."

Ludwig's eyebrows shot up. "Is that so?"

Gilbert only had the will to nod.

"Well, I would assume he would want to see you, Ludwig. You _are _his little brother." Gilbert figured he should be upset about Matthew speaking for him, but he wasn't. Nothing he said was untrue.

"Oh." Ludwig brought a large hand to his chin to scratch an invisible goatee. He looked down again, in that moment resembling the statue titled _The Thinker. _"I thought… I was under the impression you hated me."

"I never hated you, Ludwig. I only hate that you treat me like a fucking leper." It took Gilbert a second to register that the voice that spoke was his own, and even longer to realize he had not yet stopped. "I could never hate my baby brother." A breath. "Never."

"I never meant to make you feel that way." Ludwig blinked a few times, too rapidly. "I'm… sorry, Gilbert."

Gilbert had an immediate urge to scratch again, only for the purpose of pulling himself out of what had to be a dream. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard those words from his brother… if he ever had. "You must still think I'm insane though, right? That I'm making this all up?" It was nothing more than a decompression of building astonishment.

A pause. Then, after a sigh, a shake of the head, and a skipped beat of the heart, Ludwig whispered. "No, I do not."

"Ludwig and I have been talking," interrupted Matthew suddenly. "I think we're all on the same page now."

Gilbert blinked, unable to understand, to believe. "Really?" He was met with two nods. His eyes stung, and he looked away. He could barely force out, "Thanks," even if he wasn't sure whom the word was meant for. A weight the size of an empire lifted from his chest.

"I'm sorry, Gilbert." Ludwig's strong, firm voice sounded weak. "I am very sorry."

Gilbert could hardly believe it… not only had Ludwig apologized, he had done it twice. He was not sure whether he wanted to laugh at the absurdity or burst out in tears over the relief.

And Gilbert could think of nothing to do but return it. "I'm sorry, too."

Matthew did not say anything, but his audible, trembling sigh spoke volumes.

"Well," said Ludwig, still with an unfamiliar voice. He stood. "I think I'm due for surgery soon."

Gilbert was not entirely sure if he believed him, but either way, he didn't blame him. Ludwig could only handle so much of this heart-to-heart jazz at one time. Gilbert knew that, because Ludwig was, and always would be, his brother. He could hardly believe it… they were finally _brothers _again.

"Have fun cutting some poor sap up." Gilbert grinned, and Ludwig nodded. But when he made a move for the door, something in Gilbert snapped, and he stumbled to his feet. "Wait. Hold up."

Slowly, Ludwig turned back. "Yes?"

Gilbert took a bold step forward and, nearly laughing, threw his arms around his brother. It was a strange feeling – when had Ludwig gotten so damn _big, _anyway – but a much needed one. Even in this hospital, Gilbert felt at home for the first time in months. "I love you, you little shit," he said against Ludwig's broad, familiar shoulder.

So slowly and carefully that it almost seemed painful, Ludwig raised his arms and placed them around Gilbert. "I… love you, too." It was as if he was just now remembering how to say it. Then, as if to make up for something, "Always, Gilbert."

"Yeah, yeah." Gilbert spoke the words dismissively, but his voice caught in the middle, and it didn't end up very convincing. He didn't care. After another surreal, cleansing couple of seconds, he patted Ludwig three times on the back and stepped away. "Go do your job, kid."

"I'll be seeing you." Leaving that in his midst, Ludwig headed out into the hall and back to his own department.

Gilbert waited until the door was fully closed to explode. He turned to Matthew; grin shining bright, and practically shouted in his face, "Did you _see _that?"

"Yes." The word cracked, and Gilbert watched in partial awe as Matthew took off his glasses to dab at his eyes with his flannel sleeve. "Yes, I saw. That was… amazing, Gil."

"Oh, don't cry, you big nerd." Gilbert walked over to Matthew's desk and covered his hand with his, chuckling even as his chest swelled. "I'd have thought you'd be smiling."

"Oh, I'm very happy. Just…" Matthew sniffed, and then repeated, "I'm very happy. That's why I'm crying."

"Oh." Gilbert was not quite sure what to say to that – all this therapy, and he still wasn't good with all this emotional crap – yet he could not help but think that what Matthew was saying was valid. "Yeah, I'm pretty happy too, I guess."

"You should be." Matthew absently ran his hand from Gilbert's hand to his forearm, and his skin burned at the touch. "You've really been doing well, Gil."

"Yeah?" Gilbert grinned, pride bubbling in his chest that he did not dare to let show in his nonchalant expression. "I would hope so. I've been here for like, what, fifty years?"

"Close. It's been about six months," said Matthew with a light, heart-stopping laugh. "But…" He reached up and ruffled Gilbert's hair. "I think that's about all the time you'll need."

It took all Gilbert had not to let his jaw drop like a cartoon character as the implication sunk in like a boulder to the ocean. "You're telling me I can get out soon?" With each word, he further adopted the tone of an excited toddler.

"I think so." Matthew sounded almost as excited. "You might not be integrated, and you may never be, but I can tell The King is losing power. It won't be long before he can't control you any longer."

"Oh." It was as if someone had just explained to Gilbert that he would soon gain the ability to fly. Vision blurred from vertigo, he cupped the back of his neck and let out a long, slow breath. "Oh, shit. Wow."

Before Gilbert could even regain his composure, Matthew had his hands by his ears, his thumbs on his cheeks bones, and his lips on his mouth. Gilbert felt a rush of adrenaline as he sunk into the kiss – this was stolen, forbidden. It was perfect. Matthew pulled away, looked him in the eye, and whispered. "It won't be long," he said, the tears still visible. "Just hang in there."

.

When Matthew told Gilbert about coconsciousness sometime late fall, he had envisioned something theatrical – finding himself in a dark room somewhere in the recesses of his mind, staring The King dead in the face, maybe even fighting him, as if it was at all possible to punch a piece of himself in the face… something fit for movie screens, definitely.

When it actually happened, it did not end up being nearly as dramatic.

In fact, Gilbert was surprised he could even tell what was happening. It felt like a normal day. He had gotten up far earlier than he would like and showered, as always, choked down a god-awful breakfast, like always, and was sitting in his room with a book he had already read twice. That was when he was hit with the sudden, sickening feeling that he was not alone.

Gilbert sat up and looked around. His door was closed, and he _looked _to be alone, but he felt eyes on him, and he wondered whom they could belong to. Maybe it was Ivan again. He had showed up a few days ago in an attempt to bury the hatchet, shockingly, but Gilbert would not be surprised if he showed up to throw one last punch before he checked out and rode off into the sunset with Yao.

But Gilbert knew he wasn't there. There was no one in his room, but he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.

Then he heard the voice.

_Hey, Gilly. Surprised to see me? _

Gilbert froze. The voice was close to being in his head, but it was tangible, almost as if The King was sitting behind him. If anything, it was like he was in the background. So _this _is what it was like… to be completely honest, Gilbert was a little disappointed. How anticlimactic. "I can't see you," he muttered, careful to keep his voice down. Being caught talking to himself in his room would hardly help his chances of getting out of here.

_Yeah, well, that makes two of us. I can't see you either. Thank God. _

Gilbert rolled his eyes. His alternate personality was not only talking to him, but insulting him. Maybe he did belong here. "What do you want?"

_Jesus, so testy. Are you on your period or something? _

Gilbert scowled – at what, the wall? This was getting way too weird. "I don't have to take that from you. You don't even exist."

_Wow, really? You're starting to sound like your brother. _

It would have been an insult a week ago. But now, Gilbert just smirked, crossing his arms with a bit too much pride than the situation realistically allowed for. "Luddy and I made up, mind you."

A pause. _Shit, really? _

"Yes, really." Gilbert remembered the conversation and smiled. "Matthew was really happy about it, too."

_Oh yeah, that. _There was something really, really weird about hearing a disembodied voice in the back of his mind groan. _You guys are like, together, right? _

The King sounded… defeated. Gilbert could hardly believe it. Even though he could not be seen, he did his best to mask his shock with an arrogant grin. "Yep."

_That's disgusting. _

"Get used to it."

_Whatever. _There was a loud, almost fatigued sigh, and a long pause. It was as though The King had finally run out of things to say. But of course, that could not be true for long. _When are you planning to tell him what got you here to begin with, buddy? _

Gilbert's grin fell. All these months, and he had managed to forget his entrance… including the fact that he _still _had no idea what lead up to it. Tension building, he snapped, "How am I supposed to know? That was all your fault!"

_Yeah, not entirely. _

No, not this. Gilbert was not about to fall for this again. The King had lost most of his physical reign, and now he was trying to play mind games – something he was repulsively good at. "What the hell are you talking about?"

_You _called _me out, asshole. Remember? You were at that bar, some guy pissed you off, and you let me take over. You _wanted_ me to. _

"No way," said Gilbert immediately, shaking his head as if that would make a difference. "I would never do that."

_Well, you did. I knocked him out because it was your bidding, Gilbert. You should be thanking me. Bow to your King! _

This was not the whole story. It couldn't be. Gilbert would not sick The King on someone just because he was irritated with him. That would be ridiculous, cruel… insane. It would make him someone deserving of being here… forever. "I don't believe you!" he shouted, even as his nerves screamed louder. "Why the hell would I do that?"

_Because, Gil. _There was laughter, and it echoed in Gilbert's mind, rung in his ears, pounded into his skull. _You're a monster. _

Then, with what felt like a blast of winter wind, his weighted presence was gone.

.

What should have been a joyous countdown turned into more of a death march. Since the day Gilbert experienced coconsciousness, he was forced to consider, and then reconsider, if they should be letting him out at all. Though he probably should, he doesn't dare tell Matthew. Now that things were looking up, he had no intention to spend it all spiraling down to hell over something he probably should have known all along.

Gilbert was a slave to his own cognitive dissonance. But thankfully, three days after The King made his appearance, two of the loudest distractions he could have asked for flew through the front door.

"Gilbert, _mi puta!_" cried Antonio, almost laughing, as the waltzed into the lobby like he owned the place. Francis practically skipped along beside him. "How the hell are you?"

"Shit, finally!" Gilbert called back as he crossed the room. "It's been awhile."

Francis nodded. "Ah, yes, our apologies."

There was no explanation, and honestly, Gilbert could not say he expected one. Francis and Antonio had visited a handful of times over the month, but it was never comfortable. There was always an air of _something _there, something that let the three of them know that things were not the same and could not be the same in this place, and forcing them to pretend was pointless.

Gilbert shrugged. "Whatever."

Silence was practically unheard of between them, but now it was inescapable. The questions were etched on Francis and Antonio's faces – _when are you getting out? Are you ever going to leave? _– But of course they didn't ask them aloud. They were too decent for that. Gilbert had the answers, and he should be thrilled about them, but after the other day… Gilbert pushed it away. Today, he had more good news than bad.

Gilbert put on his best, brightest, most enthusiastic grin._"Gott, _do I have a lot to tell you two!"

Antonio titled his head. "Yeah?"

Francis beamed. "Oh, do tell!"

"Ah, well…" Gilbert wondered where he should start. He settled on what he knew would both lighten the mood, and grab these idiots' attention more efficiently than anything else. "You guys remember Matthew?"

They both nodded, and Gilbert simply raised his eyebrows and smirked.

Francis's jaw actually dropped, and he gasped with the same dramatic, overblown shock that Gilbert had not realized he missed so much. "You _cannot _be serious."

Antonio threw his arms up and cheered. "I knew it! Francis, you owe me fifty dollars!"

"You guys were placing bets?"

Gilbert went completely ignored. "Toni, darling, _your _bet was that Gilbert would have his lovely therapist in bed by New Years." Francis then quirked an eyebrow, and looked pressingly at Gilbert.

Gilbert glared. "Looks like you're still broke, Antonio."

Antonio dropped his arms and stuck out his bottom lip. "Oh, _mierda._"

"Anyway," said Francis loudly, "Gilbert, are you saying you and Matthew are an item? How did this happen? Oh, don't you dare leave out a single detail!"

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright, calm down," he said, though he could feel his own brand of girlish excitement building within him. "There was always a little something there. We finally got together when… Hell, I don't know." If Gilbert were to explain every prolonged glance, every lingering touch, every deep conversation, every step in this trial and error whirlwind of a relationship, they would be here all month. He said, "I guess Matthew couldn't resist my awesome charms anymore."

Francis clapped a hand to his chest. _"Mon Dieu, _how marvelous! Oh, Toni, our little Gil is growing up. Remember when he swore off romance forever?" He wiped away a tear that Gilbert was entirely sure was imaginary. "How terrible that was!"

Gilbert gave him a light punch on the arm. "Haven't changed a bit over the months, have you, Franny?"

Antonio laughed. The sound filled the entire room, and Gilbert was almost shocked by it. It had been so long since he heard that laugh. "No, he hasn't. And without you I've been his only caretaker."

"Yeah, speaking of that…" Gilbert internally resigned. Now was as good a time as ever, he supposed. "This place is getting kinda old. I think my little vacation will be ending soon."

Antonio stared at him, as if waiting for something. A moment passed, his eyes widened, and he said, "You're serious."

"Yeah." Then, it finally set in – Gilbert would be _leaving _soon. After all these months, someone was finally opening the cage door. "Finally," he breathed.

After a brief, waited moment of silence, Francis and Antonio immediately launched into an excited, disconnected flurry of congratulations, party plans, questions they left no time to answer, and god knows what else. Gilbert couldn't really understand any of it.

"Guys," he said after about a minute, and then, louder, "GUYS!"

"I apologize, this is just so exciting!" Francis nearly shouted. "Do you have an official date yet?"

"No, just… just chill out, okay? There's one little problem." Gilbert exhaled heavily, flipped a hand up, and said it. "The bar. I know what happened now."

The level of excitement dipped so fast and so hard that Gilbert physically felt it. Antonio and Francis shared a brief, shell-shocked look they probably hoped he wouldn't notice, and then looked back to Gilbert with robotic kindness. Antonio broke the tense silence. "How do you remember, Gil?"

Gilbert wondered how he could explain this. _Oh, you know, I was just sitting in my room when my alternate personality decided to pop up and have a nice chat. Isn't that cool? _He shook his head and said, "It's… a long story. That point is I remembered." Gilbert exhaled steadily through his nose, but it did nothing to steady his racing nerves. "I, I mean, he… beat some poor sap up. Pretty badly, I'm guessing."

"Oh, Gilbert." Francis sounded suddenly motherly. He lifted a hand, rested it on Gilbert's shoulder, and regarded him with an annoying amount of sympathy. "The broken leg… it was not even that bad!"

Gilbert's eyes widened. _"Broken leg?" _

Antonio nodded swiftly and rushed to cut in. "Yes, it was in… two places. At most! I'm sure they didn't even a problem getting the blood out of the carpet. Come on, Gil, you've done worse to yourself at a New Years party!"

"Antonio, you useless Spaniard, for once in your life, shush!"

Gilbert ignored his friends' incessant bickering. He jerked away from Francis's touch, his vision tunneling and his pulse in his ears. Broken bones, blood… and it was over what, a bar spat? And to think he called The King out on purpose, for something so petty… it was like Gilbert _wanted _him to control him; just so he could do Gilbert's own twisted bidding. _Gott, _he was going to be sick…

"Besides, Elizaveta is just fine!"

Gilbert looked up from the floor, heart is his throat. He could barely choke out, "Eliza? What the hell does this have to do with Eliza?"

Antonio narrowed his eyes. "I thought you said you remembered."

Something in Gilbert snapped, and he exploded. "Well, I thought I did, but it's a lot worse than what I remember, apparently!" He threw his hands up and clutched his hair. "Did I have a problem with her that night, too? Is _that _why I called Fritz out? Or did I just feel like sicking him on everyone I looked at?"

"Gilbert, what-"

"And just how badly was _she _hurt?" Gilbert laughed, mirthless and broken. "All of this over some stupid little fight. _Verdammt, _I _belong _here!"

"What on earth are you going on about?" Francis looked incredulous. "Elizaveta was not hurt. If you _hadn't _stepped in, well… it may have been a different story."

Gilbert forced himself to take a breath. "What?"

Antonio turned to Francis. "Ooh… I don't think he remembers."

"Doesn't seem like it, does it?"

"I am _right here!" _

"Okay, okay." Antonio looked at Gilbert pointedly. "Gilbert, I don't know what you remember or what you have been lead to believe, but this is what really happened. The three of us went to a bar, yes? Just like every Friday night. But this time, we happened to spot Elizaveta and that Austrian fellow she's been seeing. His necktie was a little silly, I remember. Like something a grandpa would wear. And this taste in drinks, _Dios Mio…" _

Francis elbowed him. "On with it, Toni."

"Oh, yes. Well, after awhile, her fiancé went home – something about working early. Eliza decided to stay. I believe the barkeep was her friend. And, let me tell you, the gentleman a few seats away was _very _happy to see her alone."

"It was nothing too serious at first," interrupted Francis. "Our dear Eliza can certainly hold her own. A line was definitely crossed, however…" This time, Francis's long, deep breath did not look dramatized. "…When you saw him slip something into her glass."

"Oh." Gilbert's jaw nearly dropped in shocked understanding. The entire night was a senseless blur, but he kept getting strange, insistent feelings of déjà vu as they spoke, a sense that went hand in hand with losing time. Bits of memory began to surface over the muck of grey. "Oh, so he tried…"

"I'm afraid so." Francis clasped Gilbert's hand between both of his. "What happened next was ugly, but it was _heroic, _Gilbert. Whether your transition was voluntary or not does not matter."

Antonio smiled. "Smile, _mi amigo! _Looks like Fritz did something decent for once!"

So it wasn't over nothing. Thank god, it wasn't over nothing. Gilbert felt a huge, burning, stabbing weight lift from his shoulders, one he released with a heavy sigh. "Guess that bastard does have a heart," he mumbled, under his breath.

"What as that?" asked Antonio.

"Nothing… nothing." Gilbert shook his head, let the anxiety roll of his back, and grinned genuinely. "Now, let me tell the two of you about Mattie."

Drama forgotten, Francis and Antonio leant in eagerly, and Gilbert spoke with passion in his voice and ease in his heart until an orderly practically pushed his friends out the door.

* * *

_To be continued..._

* * *

_Note: Puta = Bitch. Antonio, you jokester. _


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: I apologize for the unforgivably long wait for this chapter. School has started for me, and on top of that, I've been struggling with my mental health. In turn, I've been low on creative energy. Don't worry, I'm fine, and I am definitely still doing my best to write. Updates might be a little bit more sporadic, but they are by no means stopping. I'm alive. I have no plans to stop writing for this fandom… ever. Thank you for your patience and loyalty. **

* * *

January passed in an excited whirlwind. Forms Gilbert did not understand, long, boring discussions with strangers he didn't want to understand, sessions with Matthew that had long since turned to jokes and laughter. But still, his favorite part was always _after_ the session – when Matthew stood from his desk, walked around to Gilbert, and pulled him into a slow, stolen kiss before playfully shooing him away.

But Matthew had not shooed him away yet. Today, he seemed unhurried, even unworried… it was practically a first.

"Gilbert…" he said in a breath, between kisses. "Gil, I'm tired of this."

Gilbert pulled away to look at Matthew, a bit startled by the words. "Huh?"

"This place isn't right for…" Matthew trailed off, flushed lightly, and finished in a whisper. "…This."

Gilbert gave a half-smirk. "What, you're telling me we aren't in the honeymoon suite?"

"It's _supposed _to be a place of understanding, safety, and healing, with a professional distance between doctors and their patients." Matthew recited the words as if he were reading them off a pamphlet. His hands squeezed Gilbert's shoulder, perhaps unconsciously, before he laughed dryly at the disconnect. Matthew sighed then, as if to give up. "But, you know… life has a god-awful tendency to get in the way."

Of course, Gilbert thought to himself. Not even this hospital, a place designed to be what was almost a human birdcage, was impermeable to the human experience. "Love obeys no boundaries," Gilbert muttered to himself, without thinking.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," said Gilbert quickly. "Anyway, shouldn't I be out soon?"

"If all goes as planned, you should be a free man by next week." Matthew allowed a slight, tired smile to slip through. "I guess I'm just getting impatient."

"Aren't we all?" Gilbert raised his chin to kiss Matthew's forehead, partially to hide his falling grin. Feelings of uncertainty swirled in his gut. He wondered if The King was growing impatient as well – if he was even still around at all. These days, it was impossible to tell. Sometimes Gilbert could still sense him, still feel him lurking in the back of his mind, but he never fully came out anymore, never really bothered him. It was a paradox, and Gilbert was unsure what to make of it.

So he chose to ignore it.

.

Two weeks, two years, two seconds… it was amazing how less than fourteen days could somehow feel like all three at once.

By the end of it, Gilbert could not say he really felt anything. Looking at his empty room, a place he had known as home for the better part of the year, he was numb. It was as if all these months had been nothing more than something between a nightmare and a dream, something he was finally waking up from. In a way, however, Gilbert still felt very much asleep. He moved in a haze.

Gilbert blinked a few times in an attempt to focus his bleary eyes, yawned, and shoved the last of his t-shirts into the duffle bag either Antonio or Francis had dropped off for him a week after he first checked in. "It's over," he muttered to himself as he pulled the zipper closed. "It's finally over." But not even saying it aloud struck emotion into his unfeeling heart.

And then there was nothing left but white – white walls, white hospital-brand bed sheets, bright white light flooding in from the ceiling that gleamed against Gilbert's white skin. It was eerie, not relieving. Was _this _really what he had been waiting all this time for? God, was this all there was left?

"Need any help with your stuff, Gil?"

Gilbert stood, slung his bag over his shoulder, and turned to face Matthew standing in the doorway. He blinked a few times, as if he expected him to simply disappear. When Gilbert came to his senses, he said, "Oh, no. I've got it already."

He figured he should move then, but something, somehow, was rooting Gilbert to this very spot. For months he had been dying to get out of this room, and now that he was able he could not so much as take a step.

"Gil? Gilbert." Suddenly Matthew was beside him, saying his name for what could very easily be the fifth, tenth time, his hand on Gilbert's arm and his eyes worried. Gilbert blinked out of his unknowing trance just as Matthew asked, "What's wrong?"

Gilbert really did consider lying. But everything was stripped away now, right down to his resolve, and he could not muster a single dishonest word. "I don't know," he about whispered.

"That's okay." Matthew looked to either side, and then slowly, carefully stepped behind Gilbert and wrapped his arms around his torso. "You don't have to know. Either way, I'm proud of you."

The words light a match in Gilbert's darkened mind. He blinked, the clouds in his vision parting just enough to almost see clearly, and suddenly it all came into focus – he was done with this. Matthew was no longer his caretaker. The moment Gilbert checked himself out, they could be together as a normal couple. And struck him far deeper than when he was told he was a 'free man.'

Not only that… Matthew was _proud_ of him.

"Finally." Gilbert inhaled, exhaled, his vision rapidly blurring. That was all he could say. "Finally."

.

Antonio turned up about five minutes after Gilbert called him, despite the apartment being a good fifteen-minute drive from the hospital – if you were going something close to the speed limit. Judging by how he barreled into the lobby, Gilbert could easily guess he wasn't.

"Gilbert, Gilbert… Gilbert!" chanted Antonio as if he has forgotten every other word. "Gilbert, today is the day!"

"I know that," scoffed Gilbert. He signed the last form he needed to, turned, and stared at Antonio. He was practically vibrating in his stance. Gilbert raised an eyebrow, fighting a grin. "If you don't calm down you're going to hurt yourself, man."

"I can't help it!" Antonio laughed wildly, and then did a full on spin in the middle of the room. "_Mi amigo_, it's been _months_! We've missed our little Gil so much!"

"Who are you calling little?" Antonio only laughed again in response, and Gilbert smirked at him. "Hey, speaking of 'we,' where the hell is Francy-pants?"

Antonio suddenly fell stoic. "Oh. Oh, he is… busy."

"Busy?" Gilbert crinkled his nose. Seeing how Antonio was over the moon, he would think Francis would at least bother to show up. "Busy with what?"

A pause. "Nothing."

Oh, now Gilbert was _really_ offended. _"Nothing?"_

"Well, actually, he's…" Antonio broke off and stared back blankly, smile gone, his eyes wide and unblinking like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He whispered, "I'm not supposed to tell you."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes. "Toni."

"It's supposed to be a surprise!" Antonio's eyes flew open, just as his hand flew cartoonishly to his mouth. "Oh! I've said too much!"

Gilbert's tone turned warning, though he had to fight the urge to keep smiling. Getting the hypersensitive Spaniard worked up was always fun. "Antonio…"

Antonio just stared at him, looking almost frightened.

"What's going on?" Gilbert finished what he was writing, pushed the clipboard rather haphazardly to the secretary, and put up his fists like a boxer in the ring. "I swear, I'll beat it out of you right here!"

Antonio flailed wildly to dodge a punch that would never come. "Gilbert, no!"

But of course, fun had its limits. Gilbert dropped his hands and laughed. Whatever it was couldn't be that big of a deal, and anyway, maybe a surprise would be fun. God knows he was beyond tired of routine at this point. "Alright, alright, there's no need to have a stroke," he said. "I don't care what you idiots do to me. Just get me out of here."

Antonio exhaled, visibly relieved. "Gladly." He peered around Gilbert's shoulder. "Where is Matthew? Surely he'd want to attend the party-" Antonio clamped his mouth closed, flushed a light pink, and stared at Gilbert as if hoping he somehow hadn't heard.

Of course. Gilbert was hardly surprised. He chose to ignore it. "He should be around here somewhere." In reality, Gilbert and Matthew had said their goodbyes twenty minutes ago. It was by no means an emotional one – they had plans to see each other _tomorrow, _for God's sakes – but he suddenly felt as though he was leaving too many lose ends untied. "Hold on," he said, and then rushed down the hall.

He wasn't hard to find. Gilbert found Matthew exactly where he expected him to be – in his office, hunched over his desk, undoubtedly worrying himself sick over someone who now needed that worry more than Gilbert. The idea should have made him happy, but left him melancholic.

Gilbert knocked twice at the open doorframe. "Hey," he said. "Miss me yet?"

"Oh, Gil." Matthew looked up, adjusted his glasses wearily, and smiled back at him. "I thought your friend came to get you."

"He can wait a couple minutes." Gilbert, despite having spent hours upon hours in this very room, suddenly felt out of place in the office. He leant against the wall and spoke as he would with a casual acquaintance. "There's going to be… a party, apparently."

Matthew pushed his papers to the side. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Antonio let it slip." Gilbert forced a laugh. "Anyway, I was kinda…" He paused, cleared his throat, and wondered why this was suddenly so difficult. It shouldn't have been. "…wondering if you wanted to come?"

"Oh, Gil." Matthew's smile turned sad. He sighed, and then shook his head. "I'm working," he said, and then as if to make up for it, quickly added, "But I'll see you tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah." Gilbert grinned back, though his heart had found it's way to his stomach. "See you."

Then, he paused. This felt big, too big, like going off to war or walking the plank. As if things would never be the same. And that was true, to some extent. Gilbert told himself he was being ridiculous and shifted his weight back to his feet.

With a plastered on-smile and a strangely heavy heart, Gilbert walked down the hall, out the doors, and back into his life.

.

Antonio drove as if he had fifteen police cruisers on his ass and a pound of coke in the trunk. In reality there was barely anyone else on the road, and nothing illegal going on – to Gilbert's knowledge, anyway. But Antonio was talking so much, so quickly; it honestly should have been against the law.

"I hope you're rested up, Gilbert, because we have _so_ much to do!" Antonio took what was possibly the sharpest turn in recorded history without so much as taking a breath. "Make up for lost time, am I right?"

"I feel that." Gilbert grinned as he said it, but let it fall as he turned to the window. How much lost time could they really make up for? As much as he wanted to, he knew deep down that everything had changed, and it just wasn't possible to simply pick up where they left off.

But Antonio was hell bent on acting like they could. "It's been so long since we've had one of our all-nighters!"

"Right?" But Gilbert honestly couldn't fathom staying up all night now… he'd gotten used to his eight hours. Internally, he groaned. That hospital really had turned him into an old man. He'd been gone for nine months; it might as well have been fifty years.

A few excited minutes later, Antonio squealed into the parking lot of their apartment complex. He was out of the car practically before he stopped the thing, yanking open the back door and throwing Gilbert's bag over his shoulder. "Please try to act surprised," he said as Gilbert stepped out. "If Francis figures out I ruined another surprise party, I'm probably going to have to find someplace else to live."

Gilbert chuckled – Antonio couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it. "I've got your back, man."

"You're the best."

Antonio slammed the car door shut and locked it. Gilbert then followed him through the lobby, up the stairs, and down the hall to the apartment he had come close to forgetting about. Antonio shot him one last pleading look before unlocking the door. Gilbert winked back, and watched with partial excitement, partial nervousness as the door opened to a pitch-black loft apartment. He stepped in, Antonio hit the lights, and before he could anticipate it, everyone he had ever known jumped from behind various pieces of furniture and shouted-

"Surprise!"

"Oh, uh, wow!" Gilbert gave his best open-mouthed grin. "How, uh, surprising!"

Francis stepped out from behind a couch – he somehow managed to do it gracefully – and laughed as he handed Gilbert a beer. "You don't have to pretend, darling." He shot Antonio a knowing look. "I'm well aware we can't trust this one with anything."

Antonio looked between both of them, and then shrugged.

Gilbert couldn't help but laugh raucously at that. "It's always the thought that counts, I guess." He yanked off the bottle cap with his bare hands, and took a long, well-deserved drink. He raised his arms in the air and shouted, "I declare this not-surprise party, started!"

Even after the loud, riotous cheer that followed that declaration, Gilbert could not help but feel as though it was forced.

The decorations were pretty half-assed, as Gilbert expected. There was a large, crudely painted banner reading 'Welcome Home, Gilbert!' hanging on the far wall, a spattering of balloons, and what looked to be handfuls of confetti thrown across every available surface. He found himself playing with that confetti as he nursed his beer. His life had gone from zero to a hundred in the twenty minutes it took to drive here, and his head was still swimming. Now, with Elizaveta, Roderich, Feliciano, Lovino, and about a dozen people he hardly recognized swarming in every direction, Gilbert felt practically lost in his own party.

The machine gun firing of questions didn't really help, either.

"What was it like living there, anyway?" asked Feliciano. He was still wearing his nursing scrubs, as if he'd left in the middle of his shift just to be here. "You know, I read One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest when I was in high school! Was it like that? Oh, oh! Did you have an evil nurse? What was shock treatment like?"

Lovino rolled his eyes. "Feliciano, honestly." He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "The real question is how you convinced them to let your crazy ass out, bastard."

Gilbert chose to ignore that. "No evil nurse, no shock therapy." He took a drink of beer and looked over Feliciano's shoulder, wondering if anyone had bothered to tell Ludwig about this. He didn't see him. "Sorry to disappoint."

Feliciano actually _did_ look disappointed to hear that. "Well, what were the other patients like? Were they nice? Oh, were they scary?"

Memories of Ivan flooded into Gilbert's mind, and he took a long, slow drink to silence them. "They were…" He stopped, shrugged. "They were definitely patients."

Before Feliciano could press for more details, Antonio showed up out of nowhere and threw an arm around Lovino. Lovino made an entirely half-hearted attempt at shrugging him off before resigning with another eye roll. Antonio chuckled, and then said, "Come on now, are we really giving our guest of honor the third degree?"

Gilbert breathed an internal sigh of relief. "There wasn't much to the place, really," he said. "Lot of sleeping. Lot of talking."

"Well, if that's true, darling," said Francis as he glided effortlessly into the circle, "Maybe it's you who should be asking the questions."

"God, yeah." Gilbert had to wonder how these people had been functioning in his absence. "What's gone down here?"

"Well," Antonio jutted his thumb at Francis, "this one got a new job."

Gilbert raised his eyebrows. "No shit. What are you doing now?"

"Just a little modeling gig." Francis put on a modest front from his flippant tone to his small shrug, but Gilbert could see the gleam of pride in his eyes from a mile away.

"Whoa, really? Awesome!" Gilbert knew Francis had wanted to break into the industry for as long as he could remember, and the fact that he had finally done it was incredible – though he was a little sad this was the first he was hearing about it. "When did this happen?"

"Two or three months ago, I believe." Before he could look at Gilbert's baffled expression, Francis turned his attention to Antonio. "Do you remember that audition? _Mon Dieu_, what a madhouse!"

"I know, right? Remember that guy that tried to convince you he knew Tyra Banks?"

"And the seedy looks that director was giving me!"

"To be fair, Francis, I think you were the one who made eyes at him first."

Francis and Antonio broke out into a loud, shared laugh, and Gilbert tried to chuckle along even though he had no idea what they were talking about. As his friends carried on without a care in the world, Gilbert's mind started to race. How much had he _really _missed? How many experiences, how many inside jokes, how many memories? How much would he never be able to get back?

The questions lingered stubbornly in the back of Gilbert's mind throughout the rest of the evening – as he made his way through three more beers, as he talked and laughed and danced, as he said a series of cheerful goodbyes as they all left. He wrapped up the leftovers from the huge meal Francis had prepared for them all and stuck the foil covered plates in the fridge, hoping it would all taste the same later… he had hardly tasted it the first time.

"Gil, don't you want me to do that?" asked Antonio. He was leaning unsteadily against the wall, a party hat he had somehow procured perched awkwardly on the side of his head. He was alone. Francis had rushed off – something about work, or possibly a girl, maybe a guy. Gilbert couldn't even remember. "It hardly seems fair that you're cleaning up after your own party!"

Gilbert shrugged. "Nah. It's not a big mess, anyway."

That wasn't exactly true, but Gilbert was fine straightening the place up. Even though he'd rather be water-boarded than admit it, he actually _liked _to clean. There was something therapeutic about it. Cleaning was a repetitive, mindless task, and seeing the room clean after was more satisfying than it probably should have been.

"Ah, well, okay." Antonio stumbled off the wall, then shot finger guns at Gilbert as he backed clumsily out of the kitchen and into his bedroom.

Gilbert turned to sweet a pile of cups into the trash and grinned. "Crazy bastard," he chuckled. What would he do without his friends?

Fifteen minutes later, the room was looking pretty decent. Then, Gilbert went to take down that banner… but he stopped, stared. _Welcome Home, Gilbert! _The bright, enthusiastic letters in the middle of the dark, empty room seemed to mock him from their place above the kitchen table.

Gilbert shoved his hands in his pockets and gazed up at the sign. "Welcome home," he muttered under his breath to the vacant room. Again. "Welcome home."

He could have said it a million times if he wanted to, but Gilbert knew no amount of repeating those words would change the strange, intrusive, impossible to ignore feeling deep down in his gut.

This hardly felt like home anymore.

.

Gilbert had never seen Matthew's house before, but it hardly surprised him that it was a reasonable sized, cozy little townhouse almost comparable to a cottage. There were pictures on every available wall – some of Alfred, some of friends, some of a blond couple Gilbert assumed to be his parents. The entire place was furnished with dark wood and earth tones, with bay windows that allowed the evening light to flood in. It was definitely a home.

So Gilbert had to wonder, even though he hid it well, why he felt like such an intruder.

"Sorry it's a little messy," said Matthew. Gilbert blinked away his apprehensions and looked around… the place looked immaculate to him.

"You should be. God, what a catastrophe." Gilbert smirked at Matthew's momentary look of panic, and then laughed with him. "Seriously, is that a _coffee cup _on the _coffee table?" _

Matthew pushed him lightly on the shoulder. "Very funny."

Matthew sat down on the couch and Gilbert sat next to him. Then, there was a very long, very strange silent. It was as if they were suddenly strangers. Gilbert drummed on his legs, looked around. This _was _kind of weird, now that he thought about it. He half-expected Matthew to whip out a clipboard and start asking about his symptoms. Of course he didn't do that, but, Gilbert realized with a jolt of terror, he wasn't sure what to do otherwise.

Finally, Matthew broke the silence with a long exhale, as if he had been holding his breath. "So, what's it like?" He said the words like they were fragile.

Gilbert balked. "What's what like?"

"You know…" Matthew cleared his throat awkwardly. "Being… out."

"Oh." Gilbert was surprised when he didn't have an answer immediately. He knew what he was _supposed _to say – that he was feeling fantastic, that it was great being free, that he'd been home a day yet he'd already gone to three parties, drank his weight in beer, and stayed up until two in the morning just to spite the rules he was forced to live by for nine months. But in reality, all he'd done was schlep his way through a mediocre party and sleep until the next afternoon. And he still felt like a stranger in his own home no matter how much Francis and Antonio wanted to pretend he was never gone.

Finally, Gilbert answered, "It's pretty good."

A polite nod. "That's good," said Matthew. "How are you feeling?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Can't complain."

"That's good to hear." Though he was smiling, Gilbert swore he could see Matthew trying to suppress to urge to launch into a full-on session.

Then, Gilbert realized… they had never really talked when there _wasn't _some aspect of therapy involved. Sure, there were those few stolen moments at the end of Matthew's shifts, or that one time on Christmas Eve, but even those conversations had spun back on Gilbert's illness or what had happened because of it. All those times, Matthew was subtly, probably unconsciously trying to help him. It was always something that lurked in the background of their every interaction.

Gilbert had to face facts. Matthew would always be, to some extent at least, his therapist.

But dammit, Gilbert had never let that stop him before and he wasn't going to start now. Sick and tired of tension, he took Matthew by the hands, pulled him forward, and broke it.

It was amazing how different a kiss could be. This was not relieving and explosive, nor exhilarating and secret, but rather desperate, like trembling fingers around the edge of a cliff or a weak breath under choking hands. Gilbert kissed Matthew like he never would again. Like the world would break apart if they did. Like that hospital never existed.

Matthew responded first with shock, then with ease. Gilbert felt his muscles relax, his shoulders melt down his back beneath Gilbert's hands, his lips soften and part. Gilbert felt a tightening in his gut that had next to nothing to do with arousal. It felt more like… fear. Which, in a situation like this, was really fucking depressing.

Gilbert functioned on autopilot until Matthew leant away. "Do you want to go upstairs?" Modesty forgotten, he was flushed, almost hurried, as if this was a long awaited moment. It should be, Gilbert thought to himself. Unfamiliar _dread _had wedged its way into spaces where excitement and joy belonged.

But Gilbert was unwilling to surrender to it. He said, "Yeah, of course."

The trip to Matthew's bedroom one was a long one, for all the wrong reasons. Gilbert's heart was beating in a similar matter as he pressed Matthew down on his bed –with movie-like grace, mind you – and moved in to kiss him again. Helpless to his own mixed feelings, almost none of them positive, Gilbert did all there was left to do. He switched to autopilot and went through the motions.

Something was wrong, Gilbert thought as he kissed Matthew's neck; something was missing, he thought as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. He had questions, but no answers, expectations, but no way to meet them, fears, but no sources, and finally, a beautiful man in front of him, but no way to please him.

When the poisonous fog over Gilbert's head cleared enough to notice Matthew had his fingers curled around his belt bucket, he reached his threshold.

"I… can't do this," said Gilbert before he even realized he had opened his mouth. And as he realized, he was hit with the most intense, most mind-numbing shame he had ever felt. It was worse than when he woke up in the hospital, worse than the unholy nightmare called family therapy. Worse than anything.

But Matthew's compassion never failed. "Is something wrong?" A second passed, nothing moved, and Matthew reached up to touch Gilbert's face. He twitched away. "Gil?"

"I'm…" Gilbert trailed off, rolled to his side. He stared at the ceiling fan. "I'm fine. Just… tired." It was not technically a lie, unless he was counting omission. And he wasn't counting it.

Matthew took a moment to respond. "Oh," he said, a breath of disappointment. "That's understandable, I suppose."

If Matthew's disappointment was bad, his therapist mode was worse.

"How about we just sleep?" Gilbert was not physically tired, but he didn't want to be awake anymore. His thoughts were jumbled. Mentally, he was exhausted. Still, he pulled Matthew into a quick kiss on the lips, and looked into his eyes as sincerely as he could. "I'm fine. Just tired. I promise."

Matthew nodded. "Okay." His lips twitched into a slight, almost coy smile. "To be continued?"

Despite being worked up as could be just a few moments ago, Gilbert's exhaustion suddenly switched from his mind to his body. He struggled to keep his eyes open. "Of course, Birdie."

Matthew fit into Gilbert's arms like he was meant to be there. His breathing as his white noise, Gilbert fluttered his eyes closed, inhaled deeply, and exhaled in a sigh. He smiled. It would be okay, he told himself, even though the words felt very far away. Everything would be okay.

Gilbert felt as though he fell asleep.

…

_Click._

* * *

_To be continued..._


	16. Chapter 16

_AN: Sorry for the wait! Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long. Also, Merry Christmas!_

* * *

Splotches of color were the first things to come into view. Gilbert blinked against them through squinted eyes, a sharp headache, and an unclear mind. He couldn't see anything. The curtains were still drawn, he guessed… or the sun hadn't risen. He couldn't even tell.

"Matthew?" he said. His throat felt raw. There was no answer, so Gilbert rolled to his side. "Birdie?"

There was still no answer, but Gilbert could make out the silhouette of his figure in the darkness, curled to his side and facing the other direction. Still half-confused, he reached out to him. Gilbert nudged his shoulder. Still seemingly asleep, Matthew turned slightly… just enough for Gilbert to realize this was not Matthew at all. This was a woman – one he had no recollection of ever meeting.

And then everything was shockingly clear. This was not Matthew's bed, this was not Matthew's house, and mostly horrifyingly, this was not _Matthew. _Gilbert had the sudden, overpowering urge to be sick that he just barely was able to force down. He had no idea where he was and even less of a clue of how he got here.

And that could only mean one thing.

Gilbert gagged on panic, scrambled out of bed and hurried to pick up his clothes – oh god, his _clothes – _struggling to be silent while his head screamed. He barely stumbled out of the bedroom. As he padded out into the hallway, Gilbert waited, hoped, begged for the moment he would wake up, open his eyes and find himself where he belonged. But that never happened. By the time he got to the end of the hall, Gilbert could not feel his legs.

"Who are you?"

Gilbert looked up hazily in the direction of the voice, and his stomach fell to his feet. In front of him was a little girl, too little to witness anything about this situation, sitting in pink Disney princess pajamas and eating from the cereal box propped up between her crossed legs. Her hair looked unkempt.

"Um…"

"Who are you?" she repeated, her hollow stare unchanging.

Another wave of unforgiving nausea seized Gilbert's stomach. He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it, tugged his askew pants roughly into place, and muttered, "No one. I'm no one," before running through the nearest door leading to the outside he could find.

He really was no one, wasn't he?

.

Matthew woke up alone.

He fluttered his eyes open, rubbed his face, and looked about the room. It took him a moment to gather his bearings and remember Gilbert had in fact spent the night – an uneventful night, but a night regardless. And he'd disappeared like… well, like a psych patient escaping a ward.

Ashamed that such a metaphor had dared to enter his mind, Matthew shook his head as if to clear it, fumbled for his glasses on his bedside table, and pried himself out of bed. "Gilbert?" he said, suppressing a yawn. "Gil? Where are you?"

Silence. After housing the loudest, most absurd, most wonderful person he had ever met, Matthew's room was suddenly bursting with it. It felt almost eerie. The eeriness carried over even as Matthew padded out of the room, across the hallway, and down the stairs, mumbling or calling or on one occasion shouting Gilbert's name. Again, there was only silence. Matthew's heart beat with his quickening footsteps.

A few quiet, anxious moments later, Matthew tried the phone. He stood in the kitchen in his pajamas, the beginnings of a headache brewing behind his temples, hitting the buttons with unsteady fingers and then holding the phone to his ear with a numb hand. He waited. The silence grew louder, in the ticks of the clock and the singing birds outside and the endless ringing on the other line.

And then, finally, a dial tone – the cry of a phone either off or disconnected or otherwise unable to reach. Matthew sighed.

Possibilities started to flood into Matthew's head. There was the pessimistic view – Gilbert had gotten sick of him and left – the optimistic view – Gilbert had gone out to get breakfast or a fresh carton of milk or something equally as domestic, and he would be back just soon enough for Matthew to feel silly – or the rational, depressing, painfully _psychologist _view – Gilbert had transitioned.

Matthew wasn't sure what he believed. As an inpatient therapist, he had unconsciously trained himself to assume the worst and be okay with it. But now, he didn't want to think about it at all, and he certainly didn't want to be okay with it. He was worried. He was sick to his stomach. He was a little bit sad. But more than anything, he was an emotion he thought he had left behind in medical school.

Matthew was angry.

.

Gilbert knew, somewhere behind layers of fear and confusion and guilt, guilt, _guilt, _that he had to tell Matthew about this. Had to drag his tired, grungy ass back to Matthew's house, had to sit him down, and had to explain that the moment he got out of the hospital he was already getting into the same kind of shit that landed him there in the first place. Had to admit to the failure of his own broken mind.

And who was he to think it would stop with Matthew? Gilbert would most likely have to tell _everyone _he was apparently transitioning again, from his friends to his brother to his grandfather to the small, manipulative part of him that insisted this was nothing more than a terrible nightmare. He would have to tell _everyone. _He would have to ruin _everything. _

That was the only thought in Gilbert's aching head as he trudged through unfamiliar streets and alleys, his clothes dirty and foul smelling, his eyes dry and bloodshot. In some sick way, he was used to this. Used to be lost, used to being disappointed, used to being vaguely afraid and entirely alone. He could probably find his way back fairly quickly if he tried hard enough. But Gilbert was never one to run headfirst into an apocalypse, so he took his time.

But eventually, the red sea parted. Gilbert somehow managed to bumble and bullshit his way past the police sirens and rundown buildings back into peaceful, quiet, absolutely-nothing-bad-has-ever-happened-here-ever suburbia. Birds were singing and it made him want to vomit. Gilbert scowled as the well-kept grass, cursed the blue sky. Beauty like this was disgusting when he knew things were about to get so very ugly.

He could go home, Gilbert thought to himself. He could skip Matthew's house entirely, go back to Francis and Antonio, and make something up later about some pressing errand he'd so desperately needed to run. He could put this whole thing behind him and _pray _that it never happened again.

But Gilbert knew, as a result of entirely too much experience, that it would always happen again.

Knocking on Matthew's door felt like getting ready to turn himself in. Gilbert hung his head, unwilling to meet Matthew's eyes when the door was opened, and stared unblinkingly at his socks – he must have lost his shoes sometime between last night and this morning. But it didn't matter. Out of all the things he could lose in this moment, his clothes were the least of his concerns.

The door opened and Gilbert looked up instinctually. "Matthew?" he caught his shocked expression, flinched, and looked back down. "Hey, um, I need to talk to…"

"Where were you?"

Gilbert cleared his throat. Matthew's words were unusually clipped; his voice unusually firm, and really, Gilbert couldn't even say it surprised him. "Yeah, that's kind of why I need to talk to you." He took a long, pained breath. "Can I come in?"

"I…" Matthew trailed off. Gilbert looked up hesitantly, the sun in his eyes, and forced himself to meet his gaze. Matthew was looking off at some fixed point in the far distance, as if he wished he could do nothing more but run there. "The weather is pretty nice."

The message sunk in far before Gilbert would have liked it to. "Alright," he said, focusing half his energy on ignoring the ache in his gut and the other half on not crying, "I didn't wake up here."

They were still not looking at each other, but Gilbert could clearly – too clearly – picture that telltale twitch in Matthew's right eyelid. "You transitioned?"

There was no point in trying to sugarcoat it. There was no point in denying it. There was no point in anything. "Looks like it."

"Where did you wake up?" There was no detectable emotion in Matthew's voice. Just flat, grey, empty questions that served no other purpose than gathering facts. It reminded Gilbert of a doctor.

"Some woman's house." Gilbert took a breath. He needed to tell the truth… the whole truth. "Her bed."

It was funny, how everything continued normally in that deathly pause. Birds were chirping, wind was blowing, life was simply happening. It didn't matter that Gilbert's heart had stopped or Matthew's face was ghost-white. The earth was still turning, even though their lives had just been thrown off their axes so forcefully it was tangible. All Gilbert could do was wait, breathe, and survive the seconds.

Finally, Matthew said, "Oh," as if this wasn't bothering him in the slightest. But Gilbert knew better. "Well, that's… quite a shame."

"Yeah," said Gilbert, "it is."

And in that simple sentence, it felt as though something between them died. Gilbert had unknowingly allowed his eyes to drift back to his dirty socks, so he forced himself to look up again, a knot in his throat and virtually no hope left in his heart.

Matthew's lips were pursed. His expression was that of someone who had finally, finally had enough, finally reached a limit they had not even allowed themselves to set, and lost a bit of themselves in the process. The straw had finally broken the kind camel's back, and that straw began and ended with Gilbert.

But of course, Matthew didn't yell. He didn't smack Gilbert clear across the face or slam the door or even roll his eyes like Gilbert probably deserved. He only whispered, with far too much decency, "I have… something to do. I'll talk to you later," and then gently shut the door. Gilbert stared at the wood for what felt like a very long time.

And he couldn't help but think that this – all of this – would have been much, much easier if Matthew weren't so damn nice.

.

Home – or at least, where he was living – was the only place he could go. Gilbert unlocked the door with shaking fingers, and after dropping the keys only twice, let himself inside their apartment. He hoped Francis an Antonio were out. He would need to tell them, eventually… but that was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

Thankfully, the apartment seemed empty. There was no salsa music blaring, no screaming voices, no commotion or bursts of flour coming from the kitchen. Gilbert tiptoed anyway. He made his way through the lounge and into the bathroom, peeled off what was left of his clothes, and turned the shower on scalding. When he stepped in the water was hot enough to leave welts on his skin and steam the mirror white.

Within seconds, or perhaps minutes, Gilbert lost his concept of time. He stared at the fog-obstructed white tiles in front of him and thought nothing, felt nothing but his skin burning. Water dripped from his hair like a ticking clock. He should be used to this, came one thought in the long stretch of nothing. This was nothing new. But he knew, deep down, that grasping onto hope only to lose it was far worse than never having it in the first place. He closed his eyes. The water sizzled.

"…bert! Gilbert! Come on, _mi amigo, _we can barely afford the water bill as it is!"

Gilbert opened his eyes, gasped, winced, and slammed the faucet off just as quickly as he could regain his senses. His skin tingled, feeling raw. "Sorry, Toni!" he called out as if nothing was wrong. Gilbert stepped out of the shower and fumbled for a towel. It wasn't until then that he noticed the humidity was suffocating him, so he threw the door open as soon as he was decent.

"Finally! I thought you were…" Antonio trailed off, his eyes widening. "Are you alright?"

Gilbert looked down at himself. His pale skin was splotched in red like blood to snow, prickly against the cold air, a clear sign that shower wasn't a normal one. Still, he nodded. "I was cold," he said uselessly. "So, uh, how's it going?"

"I'm fine." The usual enthusiasm had disappeared from Antonio's voice. But he shook his head, and suddenly it was back. "Where have you been, Gil? We'd thought you'd disappeared!"

"Oh." Gilbert tensed his jaw. "I was with Matthew." Well, at least it wasn't a lie… not a full one, anyway.

"…Ooh." Antonio elbowed Gilbert with a smirk, and Gilbert pretended it didn't smart. _"With Matthew, _eh?"

Gilbert couldn't help but chuckle at that. Antonio was still Antonio, at least. "Get your mind out of the gutter for once."

"Alright, alright." Antonio threw his hands up briefly. "How is he, anyway? It must be nice seeing him out in the real world!"

And then, the brief moment of normality Gilbert was allowed came crashing down in a torrent. He needed to tell him. He needed to tell him now, actually, since waiting any longer could easily be read of deceptive, and that was the absolute last thing he needed, and oh god he'd taken too long to respond and Antonio was staring at him and how was it possible to take a shower that hot and still feel so dirty?

"He's… fine," said Gilbert finally. He really hoped that was true. Without giving himself time to think, he said, "Antonio, I need to tell you something."

"Okay! What's up?"

Gilbert winced. If only Antonio wasn't so cheerful, almost naïve. He felt as though he was about to tell a five year old that Santa wasn't real. But Gilbert just sighed, tightened the towel around his waist, and said the words. "I think I've started transitioning again."

Antonio's face fell. He had been in a towel this whole time, but suddenly Gilbert felt even more naked, more exposed. He tightened his towel again even though he knew that wasn't the issue. "What?" said Antonio finally. He was still grinning, but it didn't carry to his eyes anymore.

"I know." Gilbert didn't know what to say, how to explain. "I thought it was over. I really did, Toni. You have to believe me."

"Of course I believe you," said Antonio. Gilbert was almost able to breathe. "I just…" He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and exhaling heavily though his nose. "Wow."

"I know," said Gilbert again. There was nothing else to say.

"When did this start happening?"

"Last night, I think." Gilbert tried to ignore how much Antonio's eyes widened… and he hadn't even gotten to the worst part. His heart beat painfully in his chest, cool sweat beading up on too hot skin. "I figured it out, when, well…"

"What's going on in here?" Francis suddenly emerged from around the corner, dressed in what looked like last night's silk shirt and skinny jeans. He'd probably just gotten home. The hallway fell silent as he surveyed the situation, eyebrow raised in suspicion. "Gilbert, do you usually have serious conversations half naked? I thought only I did that."

Gilbert closed his eyes. Telling Antonio was one thing, telling Francis was another. Though neither of his friends could be expected to know everything, Antonio had always been the tiniest bit more understanding, more patient. But both of them would have to know eventually. "It's kind of an urgent conversation," he said. "Francis, I…"

Antonio cut in. "Gilbert's been transitioning again."

Gilbert couldn't decide what upset him more – that Antonio had told Francis for him, or that his first feeling was relief. Either way, he stayed silent. There was no way to shove the cat back in the bag. All he could do now was wait for a reaction.

After what felt like a long, long pause, Francis sighed softly and pressed his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose. "Oh, _Mon Dieu…" _

"I've got it under control." Gilbert was shocked by how easy it was to lie. "Don't freak out, Franny. It's really not a big deal."

"Yes, yes, of course." Francis dropped his hands and nodded. "No one is freaking out, love. It's… fine. Of course." He smiled, but anyone with eyes could tell it was forced.

"You said you think you started last night?" prompted Antonio. "What happened, Gil?" He played a hand on Gilbert's bare shoulder, but Gilbert felt immediately sick and winced away. No one would want to comfort him after he explained. Even Matthew didn't.

"Yeah. Last night. Because, I woke up, and…" Gilbert's knees felt weak, so he leaned against the wall to steady himself. He felt horribly cold and burning hot at the same time, like even his body was fighting against him. His friends' eyes felt accusing no matter how genuinely concerned they looked. He whispered, "I woke up in some woman's bed."

Francis and Antonio immediately shared a look – a terrifying, blank, unreadable look, one that was somehow far worse than simple disgust or anger. The two of them had practically developed their own language for dealing with Gilbert, and Gilbert had never managed to figure it out. It honestly made him angry.

"Oh. You… I mean, _he…_" Antonio's infuriatingly blank stare didn't budge an inch. "…Slept with someone?"

Gilbert fought back the overwhelming urge to be sick and nodded.

"Oh," said Francis, almost a sigh. "Oh, Gilbert…"

Antonio wrung his hands together nervously. "How do you think Matthew is going to take it?"

"I told him already."

"Oh, okay." Antonio sounded casual enough but Gilbert wasn't buying it. Francis had gone silent. "How _did _he take it, then?"

It all came rushing back. The clipped words, the broken gazes, the birds he had to listen to outside after being denied the right to even enter his house. Gilbert felt dizzy. "He was…" He tried to swallow but his throat felt dry as cotton. "He was kind of shaken up about it."

"I would assume…" Francis said low, only to be swiftly elbowed by Antonio.

"So, what are you going to do?"

Antonio's question was a lot more complicated than he probably realized. Gilbert said nothing, still incredibly indecent in only a towel, still dazed and confused and lost. The clarity he had with The King's absence was gone. "I don't know," he said honestly.

"Well…" Antonio looked at Gilbert hesitantly, apologetically. "You did_… _go and rest, for awhile, when this was happening before."

It took a moment to understand what Antonio was trying to say, and when Gilbert did, his blood boiled. "I don't need to go back to the hospital, Antonio," he snapped. "I was only there because things got really bad. You guys even said it was a last resort!"

"Cheating on your boyfriend seems pretty bad to me, Gilbert," Francis suddenly interjected. His voice had gone cold, his eyes dark. Antonio gawked at him. Francis didn't even acknowledge it. "If there is one thing I cannot stand, it's infidelity. You should know that by now."

Gilbert took a step back. Never, not in the years and years he'd known him, had Francis spoken to him like this. Not when Fritz drove his car into a river, not when he got into a fistfight with him on New Years. Not even when Francis walked in on him making out with his ex-girlfriend, Joan, a week after they broke up. Francis could always separate The King from Gilbert before. But just like what had happened with Matthew, it seemed as though he'd reached a breaking point.

"I had nothing to do with it." Gilbert's voice was trembling. "I would never… _ever_… cheat on Mattie. You know that." The room turned on its side, so he closed his eyes. The very idea filled Gilbert with enough shame to cripple him. _Please understand, _every atom of his being screamed, begged. _Please. _

Francis glared for a second longer. Then he exhaled, long and heavy, his shoulders slumping and his eyes closing as the air left his mouth like a deflating balloon. "I don't know, Gilbert." His voice was graver than it had ever been. It made the whole room feel colder. "I just don't know anymore."

Then he turned and left, slamming down the hall with heavy steps and heavier breath. Antonio was frozen in the middle of it all. He looked at Francis as he left, then back at Gilbert, eyes wide with confusion and panic. "I'm sorry," he said finally. Then he ran after Francis.

Gilbert couldn't breathe. In a house with his two best friends in the entire world, he had never felt more alone in his life. But at the same time, he didn't.

The mocking laughter in his head kept him company.

.

Gilbert sat crouched in the corner of his bedroom, door shut and locked, his cellphone pressed to his ear. The other line was silent. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, pumping into his ears and drowning out even his brother's heavy sigh. Gilbert had just gotten finished telling Ludwig everything – about his transition, about the woman, about Matthew, about Francis. It felt as though he'd said all of it in one breath. And now, Ludwig's response was taking an eternity to come.

And then, finally, "…Wow."

Gilbert closed his eyes. That response had become so commonplace, as if everyone he knew was just really, really impressed by his ability to fuck up. "I know," he said. That response had grown to be just as common.

Another pause. "And Matthew knows about this?"

Gilbert nodded into the empty room. "Yeah, he does."

"Well, can he… help you, at all?"

Gilbert grimaced. Ludwig was talking about Matthew like he was still very much Gilbert's therapist… and _only _his therapist. "He's not really treating me anymore. My case is too personal to him now, or something."

"I suppose that makes sense." At least Ludwig wasn't yelling. But then again, he was still doing that awkward throat-clearing thing, and even from here Gilbert could practically _see _his jaw clenching, and… "Let me know when you are able to find someone else."

"Oh. Oh, yeah, okay, I'll-"

"Perfect. I have to go now, Gilbert."

Gilbert wasn't sure he liked that urgency. "Wait, Lud, hold up."

"Yes?"

Gilbert clutched the phone tighter. He had gone into this with a motive, but now he was overwhelmed by second thoughts and unable to remember why he even thought it was a good idea in the first place. Then he glanced towards the door. Francis was still ignoring him; Antonio was still trying to pretend nothing was wrong… he just needed to get away. "I was just wondering…" Gilbert took a filling breath, held it for a moment, and slowly released it. "If I could crash with you for a little bit?"

"Oh. Oh, um…" There was that stupid throat-clearing thing again. "Gilbert…"

"It won't be for long," said Gilbert quickly. "Just until Francis gets the stick out of his ass. Or until I can find my own place, or… something."

Ludwig sighed – it didn't sound so much exasperated as it did just plain tired. "Feliciano… his grandfather passed away recently."

Gilbert blinked. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he was pretty sure that wasn't it. "Oh. Uh, shit. I'm sorry to hear that."

"His brother is not exactly taking it well. So Feliciano tends to be at my house quite a bit." Ludwig paused as if he expected Gilbert to take the hint, but Gilbert had no idea what hint he was supposed to be taking, so he waited until Ludwig sighed again and said, "He needs stability more than anything."

And finally, Gilbert understood. Ludwig's 'friend' needed stability, and Gilbert was nothing but a tornado shoved into the form of a person, uncontained and unpredictable and simply waiting to destroy everything around him. And judging by the looks of it, that job was already halfway done.

"Alright." Now, it was Gilbert who had to clear his throat. "I get it."

Ludwig began speaking quickly. "Will you be alright? Perhaps you should consider calling _Oppa, _or-"

Gilbert hung up.

.

When he was living at the hospital, Gilbert got used to living in eerie silence in the intervals between the chaos. He never guessed it would follow him home.

The first couple days were manageable. Even with Francis avoiding him like a contagious, fatal disease, Gilbert was able to ignore it… for the most part. Antonio was still talking to him, at least, even though he could see the cognitive dissonance in the poor man's face. Poor Antonio. He was like the golden child stuck in the middle of his parents' ugly divorce, forced to tiptoe and pretend and choose sides. Gilbert felt almost as guilty about that as he did the situation that led up to all of it.

He tried contacting Matthew a few times. And Matthew picked up, at least. But Gilbert knew, deep down, that something had changed between them. The few times he called Matthew spoke mostly about treatment, about medications and recommendations for other therapists. His voice sounded flat. Gilbert tried to make plans to see him, once… and then after decided the half-assed excuses of being 'busy' were worse than not seeing him at all. Calling Ludwig yielded the same results.

Despite his best efforts, Gilbert came to accept that… this was it. When he was in the hospital, he had spent the majority of his free time imagining what it would be like _not _to be there. Now all he had to look forward to was empty phone calls and emptier stares. The threat of transition still loomed over his shoulder.

Nothing had changed.

Nothing.

So, Gilbert took a page from one of his old roommates. He waited until nightfall, packed his bags, and left.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	17. Chapter 17

_AN: Hey everyone, sorry for such a long wait for such a short chapter. I could make excuses but honestly I think you're sick of hearing them from me. Hey, at least I'm trying. And I think this chapter is just emotionally charged enough to make up for it. :)_

_Edit: Because Fanfiction for whatever reason doesn't have the cross out feature for text, underline indicates something that Gilbert crossed out. Sorry for the confusion._

* * *

_March 18__th__, 2010. 2:13 am. _

_Hey. Gilbert here._

_It's pretty ironic I'm using my old hospital journal, isn't it? Really I don't know why I even brought the damn thing. I wanted a way to keep tabs on myself, I guess. I tend to forget shit when I transition. Anyway, it's two in the morning. I'm in my car in some random ass grocery store parking lot and I can't sleep. I would get a motel but I don't really have the funds for that. Still don't know if this was the right decision. Toni might get worried, but I bet Francis will be relieved. Don't know about Ludwig or Matt… God, Birdie. I miss him. But I don't think he misses me. _

_Gil out. _

.

_March 18__th__, 2010. 6:31 am._

_It's Gil. But I guess that goes without saying. _

_My back fucking hurts. This car has served me well over the years, but damn, the thing wasn't made for sleeping in. I managed about four hours. I'm not really a huge fan of sleeping these days, anyway… night terrors are back. Still can't remember what they're about. _

_I don't know what I'm going to do all day. Maybe I'll start looking for work… Although I'm going to have to look someplace anyone I know wouldn't go to. I was thinking a music place but Antonio needs strings for his guitar every once in awhile and Francis can't stay away from Lady Gaga for very long. I'll figure it out, I guess. I always have. _

_Gilbert, signing off. _

_._

_March 20__th__, 2010. 4:24 pm._

_Hey hey hey, it's Gilly-boy!_

_I thought a more cheerful header would lift my spirits… no dice. _

_So, I've moved base… I drove out of my own neighborhood and parked downtown. Ironically enough I think this is the same area that woman lives in. It's also like half a mile from the hospital – I drove past it on the way here. By ironic I mean really shitty. _

_I've spent the past two days job hunting. So far, no luck. Seems there's not a huge market for kinda dirty, kinda frazzled albino __Germans__ Prussians in the American retail job market. At least I got enough weird looks to last a lifetime. _

_My bank account is looking kind of sad. I mean, it was never great to begin with, but at least before I checked into the hospital I had some cash left over from the bartending job I had right after college. Even Fritz cooperated then. Alcohol keeps the bastard happy. _

_Maybe I'll try to find another bar job… but after what happened last time I was at one, I haven't exactly frequented them. _

_Gil out. _

_. _

**_Okay, what the fuck? _**

**_I'm gone for a couple fucking days and Gilbert decided to turn himself into a goddamn hobo? What the actual fuck, Gilbert? I never signed up to live this way. Who gave you the right? And a journal? Nice hobby, Ann Frank. Just when I thought you couldn't get anymore gay. _**

**_Something needs to be done about this shit, pronto. Looks like I'll have to take over. And I sure as hell won't be writing about it! Fuck this!_**

**_FRITZ. _**

.

_Don't know the date or time. Couple days must have passed at least. It's morning. _

_Oh, goddammit._

_Well I sure missed waking up in damp alleyways! I love it! I LOVE IT!_

_But really. I'm in my own personal hell. It took me hours to find my way back to this car and I can't find any of my shit and it feels like I haven't eaten in days. I don't know what happened while I was gone. I could have the police on my ass or some pregnant chick looking for me or he could have gone home and terrorized Francis and Toni just for the hell of it. Or Ludwig. Or Mattie… god, no. _

_I have no idea. And I have no way to know._

_I don't know when I'll write next. I feel really sick. Looking at my hands it looks like I'm going to need some Band-Aids. Maybe a sling… shit, my arm hurts like a bitch. Looks like a fistfight went down. Or something. _

_Just… goddammit._

_Gil. _

.

_March 28__th__, 2010. 12:34 pm. _

_Things have calmed down a little. No transitions for a couple days. I found a gym to shower at and some cheap fast food to eat. Also, I have some hella cool news. _

_I found a bird!_

_I have no freaking idea how or why, but yeah. I woke up at like ten this morning and I found this little yellow canary pecking at my window. I opened it and he flew right in… how cool is that? It looks like his wing is hurt, though. I wonder what I can do about that. I gave him sandwich crusts to eat and a balled up t-shirt to rest on. He chirps a lot and so far he hasn't shit on my clothes. This bird is my bro. _

_I'm too tired to be creative, so I think I'll name him Gilbird. I mean, he deserves a name just as awesome as he is, right? _

_Gil and Gilbird, signing off. _

_._

**_Why the hell is there a bird in here? _**

**_It won't leave, either. Not even when I smack it with a newspaper. What a stupid fucking animal. _**

**_Gilbert, if you're reading this, get your act together. This ain't Alcatraz and I'm not about to share my body with the birdman. _**

**_FRITZ. _**

_._

_March 30__th__, 2010. 1:56 pm. _

_Dear Fritz,_

_Leave Gilbird alone. I'm serious. You've ruined every other aspect of my life and I'll be damned if you scare my only friend away._

_Also, it's not your body, it's mine. Fuck off. _

_Gilbert – the real one. _

_._

**_Alright, NOW I'm pissed off, you entitled little prick. We'll just have to see when you get MY body back. _**

**_You might be the real Gilbert, but I'm the real King. _**

**_FRITZ, AKA THE KING._**

**_(P.S… I've always wanted to know what bird meat tastes like.) _**

.

Gilbert opened his eyes to a world that was melting.

He wasn't sure what time of day it was. It was as if the moon had merged with the sun, leaving only confusing light and spiraling colors. Branches reached into the corner of his vision and grasped for him. Time didn't exist anymore. Neither did light, or sound, or his own being. He didn't know where he was.

Then, it hit him.

"I'm high."

Gilbert wasn't entirely sure if he said the words, but he definitely heard them. Days must have passed since he'd last been in control of his body, but now that he was it felt like the opposite. The King had left, finally, whether he had been there for days or weeks or months or _years. _And this is what he had left Gilbert with – veins full of drugs, laying on concrete that felt like ocean waves.

"Fuck…"

In all honesty, Gilbert was not a complete stranger to drugs… but not like this. Never like this. He tried to sit up – if he was lying down to begin with, he wasn't sure, wasn't sure – but it felt like moving against concrete. A yellow blob moved into the corner of his vision and clawed at him. Gilbert jerked his head back and moved down, down, through the very foundation of the world before hitting something solid and damp. He looked around… red. Blood.

This was not reality. This could not be reality, no; Gilbert refused to believe reality could ever be like this. Nothing around him felt real and honestly, he wished it wasn't. He wanted to wake up. He waited for it. But it never happened.

His whole existence was a nightmare he could never, every wake up from. And it only took a bad trip and what felt like a concussion to realize it.

Gilbert knew he had to do something. Had to do something, even if he couldn't feel his arms or his legs and everything was so far away but so close and too real and completely fake and he was _panicking. _But no, there was no time for that. No time for panic, no time for defeat. There was only time for action. Gilbert just hoped he could manage the strength.

Whether it took a minute or an hour, Gilbert managed to get his melting, weightless body to rest against what he assumed was a brick wall. He located his back pocket and thankfully, by some miracle, his phone was both present and intact. After that, he couldn't think anymore. It was as if the phone dialed by itself.

Ringing. Gilbert focused mostly on keeping his arm lifted, his breath continuous, and his face from sliding clean off. The yellow blob circled him and he swatted at it, afraid, and felt a strange stab of guilt when he hit something. Strange chirps sounded through the air and reverberated through his fingers. He tried to bring the offending hand to his cheek and missed. But he couldn't feel it anyway.

When it finally came, it sounded like it had been pulled through a strainer. "Hello?"

Gilbert clamored for his voice. "Hey… hey, hi," he stuttered. "Luddy?"

A pause. Maybe. "Gilbert?"

"Yeah," said Gilbert. That _was _his name, right? He was half sure. "Lud… Ludwig." _I need help… _the words sounded in his head but for whatever reason he couldn't get them to his lips. _I need help… _god, he had never needed help more than he had right in this very moment, in this rock bottom. He knew because he couldn't even ask for it.

"…Yes?" prompted Ludwig after a very, very long moment.

"Please…" Gilbert coughed, nearly vomited, "Help me."

"Where are you?" asked Ludwig with less concern than Gilbert would have hoped for. "What happened?"

Gilbert flailed for a flat surface and leant against the first he could find. "Don't know."

"How would you not know?" Again with the questions. Ludwig sounded too harsh, too loud and Gilbert's head was pounding and he was sure the sky was blue not pink a moment ago and oh god he just needed some help. "Wait… Gilbert."

Maybe it was a statement, maybe a question, but really it was an accusation that Gilbert could physically feel. He waited for yet more questions. And of course they came.

"Are you on something?"

Well, Gilbert sure hoped so. His world had turned itself inside out, backwards, sideways, all its colors inverted and every truth he'd ever known replaced with lies. But maybe that wasn't that big of a change. Maybe he was only noticing it now that it was all in Technicolor.

He shook the thought away. "…Yes?" he said, barely an answer. His hand slipped and his arm was gone and he fell against the newly jellied ground. It hurt, but not much considering, so he tried to explain what he wasn't even around to understand. "I… Fritz…"

Ludwig cut him off with an indistinguishable curse and continued on in nonsensical German. _"Verdammt nochmal, Gilbert, nein…" _

He was still talking and Gilbert didn't know it was possible to forget his first language. He looked out into the twisting distance and let his stomach turn again and he needed someone. "Can you help me?" he asked quietly, unclearly, pathetically. "Please?" He might have said the word, but it was too quiet for Ludwig – or anyone else – to hear.

A break in the words, a deadly pause, a sigh. "Gilbert…" The air fizzed. The ground felt colder. "I don't know if I can do anything for you."

And Gilbert knew, even with the misplaced colors and the unstable ground and the living tree branches, that his brother's response went far beyond this solitary situation.

So Gilbert hung up.

And then, something else took over.

Again.

…

_A few letters:_

_Dear Francis, _

_Man, I can't say how bummed I am that we fell apart. You've been more of a brother to me than my own brother throughout the years, and having everything come crashing down over something like this… damn, it sucks. I'm sorry I pissed you off so bad. I guess you have the right, I mean, I'm pissed at me too. Look, I don't know what else I can say. You're disgusted by me and that's okay. You have the right. I don't know when or if I'll be seeing you, but I hope we can put all that shit behind us one day. _

_-Gil_

_Dear Antonio,_

_You really are the golden child, aren't you? I don't think I've ever met someone with as much patience as you have. Seriously, Franny and I could have been throwing your grandma's china plates at each other and you probably still wouldn't have dropped that smile of yours. Never lose that smile, okay? I know that's cheesy as shit, but I mean it. The world has a lot of shit in it and it needs people like you to brighten it up. _

_Thanks for sticking by my side, man… and not just recently, either. I mean through all of this. Through all the shit that Fritz and I put you through. I know I'm a coward for leaving – hell, I doubt I'll even have the balls to rip this out and mail it to you – but I hope you'll remember me for more than just how fucked up I am. I know you will, though. I'm pretty awesome once you get past all of that, and you're too damn nice to dwell on it._

_-Gil_

_Dear Ivan,_

_Why I'm writing to your sorry ass, I have no idea. I hated you when I was in the hospital, and I'm pretty damn sure I would hate you now. But shit, I'd be lying if I said you didn't have any impact on my life. If anything you've shown me that there really are more fucked up people in the world. As much as it hurts my poor ego, I can relate to you. That's pretty fucking humbling if nothing else._

_All of that aside, I'm sorry. Yeah, I said it. I can't stand you but there's really no reason to make your life any many difficult than it already is. That fight didn't do anything for either of us, and I'm sorry that it happened. Really, I am. I hope you got out of that hellhole because no one deserves to rot in there, and I hope you shacked up with that Yao guy and rode off into the sunset or whatever. You apologized earlier, and I'm apologizing now. If nothing else, it's one less thing to have on my shoulders. My grandpa always told me grudges were useless. _

_-Gilbert Beilschmidt_

_Dear Ludwig, _

_Oh, Luddy… my baby brother. God… we were doing so well for awhile there, weren't we? It almost seemed like everything was finally getting better. For a long time I was sure you hated me, and shit, I probably hated you too. Neither of us really have much of an excuse. I was hard to deal with but you were kind of a dick about it, so it cancels each other out, right? Probably. _

_But of course it all got fucked again. Maybe that's just how it's supposed to be. I mean, I think we all knew it was coming. __I knew I would ruin everything__ I was going to get out of the hospital, I was going to transition again, __Fritz__I__ Fritz was going to do something stupid again. You were going to __hate__ get mad at me again. It's just the natural progression of things. It's just like when we were kids, when you would always get bigger and I would always stay the same scrawny size. __I just want to make it better__ There's nothing either of us can do about it. _

_Remember when we were kids, though? Everything was so damn easy back then. There was no such thing as DID or mental hospitals or relapses. Hell, I'm pretty sure the biggest problem we had was who got to sit next to oppa at dinner. If only we could go back. Then I could be the king you looked up to forever, and none of this bullshit would ever have to happen. It's fantasy and it's stupid, but it's nice to think about it. _

_Anyway, I hope you're doing okay. With any luck you finally admitted to yourself that you're in love with that little Italian nurse, won over his mafia family, and adopted twenty dogs with him in your little cottage in the woods. Ha, I'm kidding. Kind of. _

_But I know you'll be okay __without me__. You always have been. _

_-Gilbert_

_Dear Oppa,_

_I don't even know what to put here. It's been so long since I've seen you, grandpa. You went from being one of the most important people in my life to stranger and that hurts more than I could ever describe to you, or to anyone. Besides getting sick, what did I ever do wrong? Why you love Ludwig so much more than me? What does he have that I don't? __Why do you hate me __What could I have done?_

_I just want my grandpa back, dammit. Can that ever happen?_

_Not now, I guess._

_Still, thank you._

_-Gilbert_

_Dear __Birdie__ Matthew,_

_I saved your letter for last for a reason… a couple, actually. At first I had no idea what to write. Now, I'm not sure I can write it. _

_Well, here goes nothing._

_I bet Fritz bursting into your ward was the last thing you wanted, right? As a therapist there's got to be nothing worse than an out of control lunatic coming in that you have to deal with. But you're not the only one who got the shit end of the stick. As someone who's messed up in the head, there's nothing worse than some fucking shrink locking you up and claiming they can fix you. It's the worst. I should know. _

_So really, we should have been the worst possible thing for each other. I was another unstable psycho and you were another nosy quack. But look what happened, __Birdie__ Matt. I've never been one for sappy shit, but you are undoubtedly, undeniably, the best thing that has ever happened to me. _

_Your office was basically my nirvana. Even in that crazy, loud, depressing hospital, it kept me going knowing you were always right around the corner, willing to listen to my bullshit and tell me nice things and even laugh at my dumbs jokes. Everything would be absolute shit, but then I would see that dumb flannel shirt and look at those pretty eyes and everything would just be… better. So much better. You gave my sorry ass something to live for, and if it weren't for you, I don't even think I would be here to write this __goodbye__ letter. _

_But even saints get tired sometimes. I know that now. Honestly, I'm damn blessed it didn't happen a second sooner than it did. I know I'm a mess. I know I'm loud and unpredictable and irritating and a __waste of life I'm a fucking wa__ sick in the head. You were sure to get sick of it eventually. But you dealt with it for so long, __Birdie __Matthew, you helped me so much, and at one point… shit, I was sure you loved me. And I loved you. I stilly love you, more than I've ever loved anything on this god-forsaken planet. I love you, I love you, I love you. _

_But I can't keep hurting you. I can't keep expecting you to be my therapist and the love of my life at the same time, I can't keep making you pick up my messes, I can't keep… God, I don't know, I just can't. I can't keep seeing those pretty eyes hurt. The moment I figured out Fritz hurt you was the worst moment of my life and it. Keeps. Happening whether it's on the surface or not. I keep hurting you and I keep hurting you and everything hurts all that time and I should cross have this shit out but I can't… I can't. _

_I thought I could do this…_

_Fuck…_

_Goodbye, little bird._

_-The Bear_

* * *

_To Be Continued.._.


	18. Chapter 18

_AN: Damn Emily, back at it again with the __unforgivably long stretch of time between updates. Sorry, guys. I had a real hard time with this chapter! But it's here now, and I think it's intense enough to make up for the wait. Hopefully. ;)_

* * *

Before Matthew could even regret calling Alfred in tears, Alfred had already left in the middle of work, made his driver go thirty miles over the speed limit to get to the airport, and spastically hounded every airline employee he could find until he found a flight to New York that was leaving within the hour. Matthew had tried to tell him it was unnecessary, but by the time he could put that thought into words Alfred was halfway to his house. And Matthew was strangely grateful.

Usually when Alfred got worked up over something and felt the need to burst into Matthew's home, he pounded on the door relentlessly until he was let in. This time, Matthew was barely able to pick himself up off the couch before the door was swinging on its hinges, Alfred was suddenly in the middle of the room, and there were tire marks all over his hardwood. Alfred had managed to surpass the locks somehow, which was pretty impressive for a man newly in a wheelchair. Matthew almost wished he were surprised.

"I got here as fast as I could," said Alfred as if there was ever a doubt. "Mattie, bro, are you-"

Before he could finish that inevitable question, the door slammed open again, followed by a gasp, a loud groan, and, "Bloody hell, Alfred! You damn near ran over my toes!"

For the first time in days, Matthew almost smiled. "Hello, Arthur."

Arthur dragged himself into the room and greeted him with a weak nod. "Afternoon," he said. "I really did try to control him, I promise." He then put his hand on his presumably aching lower back as if he was eighty-eight instead of twenty-eight, and collapsed on Matthew's sofa with a loud sigh. His sweater vest was askew, his button down crumpled, and his expression sour. Despite all of that, he looked good. Better than he ever did in inpatient.

"We've all tried," said Matthew, closer to smiling but not quite there. On the surface, he had every reason to smile. His brother was here, Arthur was doing better, his other patients were copasetic and functioning – but he was forcing it. Of course he was forcing it. There was a reason they were here to begin with, and this casual banter at Alfred's expense did nothing to cover the elephant in the room.

And as was expected, Alfred was having no part of it. "Why didn't you tell me about this earlier, bro?" he demanded. "I mean, really, you wait until the guy has a complete meltdown and _disappears _before you say something?"

"Calm down, will you? It's hardly any of your damn business to begin with," said Arthur. Alfred took a deep breath, shrugged, and deflated into his chair. Arthur sighed and lowered his voice. "Sorry, poppet. I just don't think yelling is the answer here."

Matthew only nodded, but he didn't know what he was agreeing with or why. Part of him wanted Alfred to yell, wanted to yell himself, wanted to scream and kick and cry because Gilbert or the world or whatever else dared to do this to him. But he also wanted to sit perfectly still and silent, to dissolve into himself and surrender to the cruel fate he was left with. He didn't know what to do. All Matthew knew was that Gilbert was gone.

"Start from the beginning," prompted Alfred, suddenly even-toned. "So, Gil checked out of the hospital, and…?"

God, that far back? Matthew leant back in his seat and closed his eyes. Gilbert leaving the hospital felt like an eternity ago. Things had been simpler then… well, perhaps not _simple, _but at the very least it was a normal, safe, routine. Their affection was scheduled in the form of appointments and held together by white walls. Adjusting to life afterwards was strange… or maybe it was just too much to handle.

Matthew opened his eyes then, forced the thought away, and began. "Well, he checked out, and things were… different, I guess. We couldn't see each other as much. And of course I still worried, even though I'm not exactly treating him anymore…" And suddenly, with two sets of eyes glued to him, Matthew felt like _he _was the one being treated. What a change that was.

"Leaving the shithole is definitely an adjustment," Arthur said and then quickly added, "No offense to you, Matthew."

"None taken, really," said Matthew honestly. No one wanted to be in that ward. That much was just a fact. "Anyway, things were just… weird. I could never really put my finger on it. Then I had him over one evening, and…" Matthew closed his mouth, glanced at Alfred, and flushed. Even though nothing ended up happening that night, he was hardly comfortable talking about any aspect of his physical relationship with Gilbert with his brother in the room.

"And?" prompted Alfred anyway.

"And… he was acting weird. Different. Like he was scared of something," said Matthew, breathing a subtle sigh of relief when he managed to omit the details. But the relief didn't last. "We ended up falling asleep. When I woke up, he was gone."

"He transitioned," said Arthur.

Either he was a very good guesser, Alfred had filled him in, or it was just obvious. Matthew really didn't care. "Yes," he said. "He transitioned, I guess." Which had been surprising, because Matthew actually had thought Gilbert and Fritz had integrated. Looking back on it, however, thinking that had been incredibly naïve. Miracles don't happen overnight. After years in this field, Matthew should have known that.

Alfred interjected then. "So he switched or whatever, and he, or uh, the other guy, went out, and…"

Matthew cringed. There was only one way to get through this, he decided. It would have to be like a Band-Aid. "He came to my door the next morning and told me he woke up in some strange woman's bed. I was upset. I was dumb. I didn't let him come inside and that was the last time I saw him."

Alfred was sitting back in his chair now as if blown back against it, even if he had heard this story before. His brow was furrowed in either deep thought or downright emphatic pain. "Aw, Mattie, it's not your fault," he said finally, weakly. "Obviously the guy still has some problems."

"Problems that I was supposed to fix! Actually, no, I didn't even _help_ him, because I decided to shit where I eat and fucked both of our lives over."

The words left Matthew's mouth in a jumbled torrent of raw emotion, and they left a sharp, dangerous taste in the air. Alfred and Arthur both stared and Matthew slouched, embarrassed. "Sorry," he near whispered.

Alfred recovered quickly from his shock. "No, it's cool." He paused in contemplation, and then said, "Well, it's not like he could too far away, right? Where could he have gone?"

Matthew said nothing for a few moments. "Arthur got to Florida in a matter of days."

The room took on a sudden, all-encompassing, knowing type of silence. Arthur broke it when he cleared his throat and muttered, "Those were extenuating circumstances."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Way to set the standard, Art."

"Anyway," said Arthur loudly, too loudly. His face had gone a light shade of pink. "Let's focus on the problem at hand, shall we? Gilbert is missing. And, having lived with him for quite a bit, I know he can be quite… impulsive."

"He's not impulsive, he's unstable. He's ill. He's _hurting._" A strong pang of guilt, or worry, or maybe even anger pierced Matthew in the gut as he said the words. He couldn't tell which it was… he just knew it came with the overpowering urge to be sick. "Both of them are," he finished quietly.

And the silence was back. Matthew knew what it meant: He could say all he wanted, complain all he wanted, cry all he wanted, but none of it would help a thing. A handicapped ex-football player and a recovering schizophrenic couldn't be expected to help him with Gilbert. They had enough to deal with on their own, and Matthew knew it. The silence only cemented the truth in his mind.

Alfred was the one to break it, without any of his usual gusto. "He'll turn up," he said. His lips twitched into an uncharacteristically weak smile. "Either way, we're both here for you, little bro. Right, Artie?"

"Of course," said Arthur. But he was looking out the window, and his voice was too low, and too quiet, and Matthew didn't blame him at all. He wasn't sure he could blame anyone anymore. All signs pointed to a dead end, and it looked as though this was just how things were going to be.

In the empty, dismal quiet, Matthew found himself thinking of Gilbert's booming voice, his distinct laugh… his loud, loud presence in his life.

He smiled.

.

The King was tired.

It had been at least three days, maybe four or five, since Gilbert had been in control of the body. It was the longest stretch of time that The King had been out to date. The first day was great – Gilbert had transitioned out without any fight, although that was after he had driven his car across creation and taken the both of them almost to the state lines – and The King was given full reign.

Really, it had almost felt _too _easy. Usually when Gilbert switched out, he went out with resistance, a trying push-and-pull with Fritz that left the both of them suffocated and exhausted by the time it was over. Even when he was in control, The King could always feel Gilbert in the background, clawing and pushing at him in a struggle to get to the front again. This time it was different. Gilbert had just… slipped away. One moment The King was dormant, and the next he had full control.

He couldn't even feel Gilbert anymore.

And now that The King's usual hours of allotted time had turned into too many days to keep track of, there was nothing left to do but sit slumped over the steering wheel and stare at that stupid yellow bird, scowl, breathe in and out. Exist. It was all he _could _do. There was no hell left to raise, no perfection left to rip apart. Gilbert had left everything behind, given up on everything, and let his counterpart win. Fritz should have been happy about it, but instead he felt… empty.

The King was tired.

Lips chapped and throat dry, he reached into the backseat for Gilbert's backpack for a bottle of water. Even that took a good amount of effort. The King's muscles ached, and his hands shook with exhaustion as he pulled at the zipper. He wasn't used to being out this long. Gilbert was usually the one that made sure the both of them got enough sleep, ate enough… whatever. The King shook the thought from his head as he rummaged through the bag. Gilbert didn't matter, he told himself. Gilbert didn't matter.

After a minute or so, The King managed to locate a bottle of water under the mess of debris. He pulled it out, twisted the cap, and gulped down half of its contents before realizing that he had dragged something else out with it. Sitting in his lap was a battered, stained notebook. The King pinched it between his fingers and scoffed. It was the same notebook he and Gilbert had been using to 'communicate,' if he could even call it that.

But The King opened it anyway. It wasn't like he cared, but maybe, just maybe, something in here could give a hint as to why Gilbert had gone M.I.A.

He started from the beginning, from when Gilbert was still in the hospital. None of the content really surprised him. Matthew, Matthew, 'I hate my brother,' 'I hate this place,' Matthew, Matthew. What did surprise him was something he hadn't noticed before. The…_ intensity, _of the writing itself was overwhelming. The pages were crumpled were his hands must have been, the ink always got heavier on words like _Ludwig _or _transition _or _sorry, _and on certain pages there were water marks.

The King would have laughed a month ago. But now his lips were pursed, and he found himself sighing as he turned the pages.

It felt like reading an odyssey. The King read through Gilbert's arrival at the hospital, the first time he met Matthew, how they got together, how Ludwig had left his life and eventually came back. After the hospital arc came their letters to each other, and The King had to reread a couple of those… he didn't remember being so brutal.

And then came the letters.

God, the fucking letters… The King really did try to laugh at them. Really, he did. But Gilbert just sounded so damn _defeated. _It was pathetic in the most morbid way possible, so hopeless it was contagious. How intensely Gilbert hated himself was actually tangible. He could feel it in the thick lines Gilbert used to strike out word after word, in the torn edges and the shaky handwriting.

The King got through half of Matthew's letter before he threw the notebook across the car.

That damned bird squawked loudly and flapped its wings wildly to avoid it, nearly flying right into The King's face, but he didn't try to swat at it. Actually, he didn't even move. The King only brought his hands to his temples and stared out windshield. His head pounded so loud it drowned out the chirping, drowned out the heartbeat in his throat, drowned out how their entire body ached. Gilbert hadn't even sent these letters. Maybe he didn't want to, or maybe he gave up before he could. Either way, The King was being suffocated by an emotional completely unfamiliar to him.

Guilt.

Time ticked by. The bird eventually settled down, and was now resting contently in a discarded t-shirt thrown haphazardly onto the dashboard. The King ran his shaking hands through his sweat-matted hair, looked up, and watched it. Heh. It was falling asleep now, even after all that bullshit. It reminded The King of his own exhaustion, and through all the stress, he yawned. He kept watching the bird. The sky got darker; rain dotted the rearview mirrors. A decision was made.

The King was tired, and it was time to put himself to sleep.

.

Gilbert had lost himself.

The King had taken over almost a week ago, and by now, Gilbert could not remember what it felt like to be in control. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to exist.

Gilbert had given up on fronting, and now he was left in a void. He couldn't feel The King, probably because he wasn't fighting him anymore, and now he was left to… float? Disintegrate? He didn't know. His own sense of self was fading. All he knew was that he was losing a bit more of himself by the second, and soon he would not be here at all. But it didn't bother him. Gilbert had already had everything else ripped away from him, after all.

The King could be his own person now. Gilbert smiled… at least, he felt something that could be equated to a smile in the state he was in.

_Come on, kid. Nap time's over. _

The something that could be equated to a smile faded from what was left of Gilbert. He knew that voice… of course he knew that voice. But he never thought he would hear it again. Not after all this time, not after everything. And especially not this gently. Gilbert said nothing, did nothing, felt nothing.

_I know you're in there, Gilbert. _

Gilbert heard the voice all around him, through him. Coconsciousness. He had experienced it only once before, when things were going decently well and he was solidly in control. The fact that it was happening now, when he no longer even felt alive, was almost nauseatingly confusing. He couldn't put it into words. He didn't even know if he had any words left.

_Gilbert. I'm serious. Enough fucking around. _

Why was he being so persistent? Gilbert felt a spark of frustration, an emotion more potent than anything he had felt in a long while. A surge of something determined and alive powered through him, and he was able to feel his mouth, his throat, and with all the energy he could muster, Gilbert said, "What do you want?"

_Finally. _There was a pause, a sigh. _I'm not trying to fight with you, man._

Gilbert began to get a sneaking suspicion that this was some kind of a joke. This was the longest he and his alter had ever communicated with no insults, no hostility. It made everything feel even more surreal than it already was. "That's new."

_Whatever. Listen up, kid. We need to have a talk. _

Gilbert felt a drop in… what, his stomach? He couldn't tell anymore. "What more could you want?" he asked. It hurt.

_Nothing. I don't want anything. _

The King's voice was low, dark, and held something like grievance. It was foreign. Gilbert found himself able to speak a little easier, even if he was only running on confusion. "Then why are you talking to me?"

_Because… _There was a long, desolate pause. Gilbert waited, and in the silence he could feel his heart beating, could feel his lungs filling. It was like his veins were pumping blood again. And then, finally, _I'm… I'm fucking sorry, okay? Fuck. _

Another emotion was coming back… shock this time. "What?"

_You heard me. Gilbert, look, I'm tired. I don't want to do this anymore. I… I want you to grow some balls and get out here. _

"Get out…" It took Gilbert a moment to register it, and when it hit, his chest swelled with terror. "No. No way."

_Why the hell not? It's your goddamned body._

That was new, too. "Since when do you consider it _my _body?"

_Since… since now, okay? Stop asking questions. Just man up and get out here. _

Gilbert's head was spinning. Stop asking questions? All he had was questions. Questions without answers, feelings in a body he didn't know how to control, emotions that were lost in the mess of it all. Gilbert felt like a puzzle that had been slammed on the floor by an angry child, the pieces splinted off and lost in dusty corners. He had managed to die with dying and now he was being forcibly resurrected. "I don't think I can," he said, his voice still hoarse from underuse and sounding much more pathetic than he was comfortable with.

_Well, I suggest you get it together real quick. _

It felt like an earthquake. Gilbert went from complete stillness to being pulled up, up, up, light and sound quickly filling the spaces where darkness and silence used to be.

_Because I'm not coming back. _

.

The King didn't have much time. Black spots dotted his vision as he fussed with the lock. Gilbert's bag was over his shoulder, his bird in the car, and the spirit of him stirring in his very self. He was fighting, finally fighting, and The King had only a few loose ends to tie up before he could finally, finally rest. Relief washed over him prematurely.

The lock snapped with a click, and The King wasted no time. He kicked the window open and made sure to slam down on the hardwood when he fell into the kitchen. There was nothing stealthy about his objective. He needed to make noise, enough noise that he could be noticed for his chaos one last time and this could be over quickly.

The King waited a moment; nothing happened. He slammed the backpack on the table as loudly as he could. Then, when there were still no signs of activity or even life, he sighed, picked up a red glass sitting on the counter, and threw it full force at the floor. A wave of dizziness nearly sent him right down with it. Glass shattered in an explosion of noise in the silent house, and The King hoped to God it was enough. He knew his time was running out. He couldn't waste any of it.

Finally, a reaction. Lights flickered on, footsteps sounded from the stairs, and then he saw him. The King had never been this happy to see him before.

Matthew didn't seem to share the same sentiment, because he screamed.

"What are you doing here?" he said in a jumble of quick, harsh words. He was brandishing a candelabra and squinting without his glasses. "Gilbert, oh my god, what are you doing, oh my god…"

"Calm down," said The King, even though his own heart was hammering. He really didn't have much time. "I'm not Gilbert."

"Oh my god," said Matthew again, hands shaking so hard he dropped the candelabra he had apparently intended to weaponize. "F-Fritz?"

"Yeah," he said, taking a step forward. "Look, Matthew…"

"Stay back!" Matthew raised his hands, terror in his bleary eyes. "Don't touch me! Why are you in my house? Get the hell out of my house!"

"Matthew, please. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not even going to be here long. I just need you to listen to me-"

"Listen to you?" Matthew was near screaming now, his pale face turning red and his shaking hands turning into fists by his sides. "Why on earth would I ever listen to you? You ruined Gilbert's life! You ruined _my _life! All you've ever done since the moment I met you is RUIN EVERYTHING!"

The King didn't respond immediately. He was surprised how deeply the words hurt, and, even more shockingly, how guilty they made him feel. But he pushed past it. "I won't be here long," he reiterated. As Matthew watched him in shock, The King reached into the discarded backpack and retrieved Gilbert's battered journal. "I just thought you'd like to have this."

Slowly, too slowly for the black haze seeping into the corners of The King's vision, Matthew reached out an unsteady hand and took the journal. "He kept this?" He leafed through the pages, again too slowly. "Has he been using it?"

"I dog-eared the page you want to look at." The King spoke as fast as his pulse was racing. "He wrote… letters. One of them to you."

It felt like it took Matthew an eternity to read the couple of pages Gilbert had written to him, and The King had to watch him with a bomb ticking away in his chest. He was getting dizzier by the second, his palms sweating, the amount of vision he had left tunneling down to nothing. By the time he finished, tears were streaming down Matthew's face. He didn't make any noise when he cried. Or maybe The King just couldn't hear his sniffling anymore, as there was a tornado behind his eyes.

All Matthew said was, "Where is he?" His voice was soft, broken, like a little boy's. But for the first time, The King could see the strength in him. He could not be mad at Matthew anymore, could not hate him. The same went for Gilbert.

"He's coming." There was a storm inside him, but The King kept his voice soft, calm. He didn't want to go out with a bang. He had lived his whole life in a bang, and there was something appealing about going out in a whisper. "Chin up, kid. You won't have to deal with me anymore."

Matthew sniffed, wiped his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I'm tired," said The King simply. There was no flowery way to describe it. "I'm leaving."

Matthew's eyes widened, part shock, part almost fear. "You're joking."

"Nah. It's not very funny, anyway." The King's fast heartbeat slowed, and the franticness turned to an overwhelming, enveloping sense of complete peace. A white film covered everything he saw, as if the world had been obscured in snow. He could feel Gilbert. He could feel himself slipping. And that was okay. The King picked up Matthew's hand, smiled, and kissed it. "You know," he said. It had become hard to speak. "You're not too bad, Matthew."

The floor dropped away, and The King let himself fall.

_Goodbye. _

…

Gilbert could feel his hands. He could feel the air on his skin, feel the ground beneath his feet, feel a sense life he had been avoiding for so long. Gilbert could feel his hands. More importantly, he could feel _another _hand.

A single word. "Gilbert?"

Gilbert opened his eyes and the world rushed back into him like a flood. He was back and he didn't know where he was and oh god Matthew was in front of him Matthew was touching him and that was his name, wasn't it? Gilbert inhaled sharply, looked around. He was in a kitchen… not his kitchen. This was _Matthew's house. _Gilbert's frantic eyes snapped to the open window, the mess on the counter. He moved his foot and heard the crunch of broken glass.

With no clue of what had transpired over the last few weeks, all Gilbert knew was that he was not supposed to be here.

And after being silent for so long, the first word Gilbert ended up saying was, _"Scheiße!" _and he said it in a throaty scream. He ripped his hand away from Matthew's, terrified to touch him. "What did he do?" he demanded. Gilbert raked his hands through his dirty hair. "God, what the FUCK did he do?"

"Gil-"

It was bound to happen any moment… Gilbert tried to take a breath and ended up crying. "I don't know how I got here, Matthew!" The words were broken, desperate, a yelp of confusion. "Did I…he… did _someone _break in? Are you okay? Are you hurt?" He didn't allow time for answers as he wasn't sure he even wanted them. "This is all goddamn confusing! I can't… oh my god…" Gilbert covered his face, ashamed, terrified. "I'm so sorry… I'm so sorry…"

The room was spinning, but Gilbert felt a pair of arms embrace him, steady him. Suddenly, all he could sense was an overwhelming feeling of familiarity and safety. Like this was where he belonged. "Gilbert," said Matthew, and the feeling intensified. The air came back to his lungs. "He's gone. Everything is alright." Matthew took a deep, shuttering breath that Gilbert could feel against his own skin. He got the feeling these words were not only for him. "Everything is going to be alright now."

"He's gone…" It was no sooner than Gilbert said the words that he felt them. With Matthew still embracing him, he slowly brought a hand to his own chest, slowly curling his fingers around the front of his shirt. He took a deep breath and felt… emptiness. Calm, silent emptiness, like a ruined town the morning after a tornado. "He's gone," Gilbert repeated. And he knew it was true.

"He showed me your letter before he left," said Matthew. He pulled Gilbert closer, and Gilbert could feel him trembling. Or maybe that was just him. He didn't even know anymore. "Oh, Gil… I'm so glad you're here."

Oh, that letter. Gilbert had nearly forgotten. He had written it when he thought he had had nothing, when he was ready to _become _nothing. Gilbert finally found the courage to hug Matthew back, and once he was touching him, he couldn't get him close enough. "I thought you hated me."

"No," said Matthew firmly, immediately. "No, I didn't hate you. I just… I hated the situation. I hated that you were in pain; I hated feeling confused, I… I'm sorry, Gil. I shouldn't have pushed you away when you needed me." A breath. "I could never hate you." Another. "Ever."

And Gilbert was still crying. He cried in heavy, loud, shoulder-shaking sobs, something he had never experienced quite this intensely. It felt like relief, it felt like overwhelm, in some sick way it felt like loss. Gilbert had hated The King, more than anything. He should have been ecstatic to be finally rid of him. But to feel him gone, to feel a piece of himself gone… it felt like a hole through his chest. It _hurt._ But in the same blindingly strong way Gilbert had hated The King, Gilbert loved Matthew, more than anything. And Matthew was cauterizing the wound.

"I thought I'd lost you." Matthew's voice cracked as he said it. Gilbert opened his eyes at that, just long enough to catch a glimpse of bare feet and flannel pajamas, of moonlight glinting off broken red glass. Of home. "Never disappear like that again, do you understand?" It could have sounded like a demand if Matthew hadn't also began to cry. "Never! You have to promise me, Gilbert! No matter what happens, you-"

"I promise! I promise, oh my god, I promise." Of course Gilbert was still crying but it was out of happiness by now. They were a mess; this room was a mess, absolutely everything about this situation and everything that had lead up to it was a big, horrendous _mess. _But dammit, it was their mess. He let out a joyful laugh for the first time in… fuck it, he didn't know or care. All that mattered was he was laughing now. "I'm not stupid. I'm never going to leave my Birdie again."

There was a pause. Finally, Matthew just whispered. "I love you."

Gilbert pulled him closer, even closer. "I love you more."

And then, words were tedious and unnecessary. Gilbert was back. He was alive, he was fully in control for the first time in his life, and more importantly than anything, he had Matthew again. Finally, he felt like everything _would _be okay. They would be okay. Everything was finally, finally _okay. _

As if to confirm it, Gilbird could be heard from the open window, singing.

* * *

_We're nearing the end here, guys. All that's left is the epilogue! Stay tuned, and thank you so much!_

* * *

_The end…(not quite)..._


End file.
